


A Lost Boy

by AngiePen



Series: A Lost Boy [1]
Category: Actor RPF, Fast and the Furious RPF, Kingdom of Heaven (2005) RPF, Lord of the Rings RPF, Pirates of the Caribbean RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Slavery, M/M, Sexual Slavery, Slavery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-11
Updated: 2013-12-11
Packaged: 2018-01-04 07:56:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 39
Words: 89,894
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1078473
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AngiePen/pseuds/AngiePen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Slave Orlando's been taken and the kidnappers aren't interested in ransom.  And of course Master Liam's thundering rage is <i>only</i> at the personal insult, that someone would disrespect him by daring to touch his property.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [A Kept Boy](https://archiveofourown.org/works/253311) by [poisontaster](https://archiveofourown.org/users/poisontaster/pseuds/poisontaster). 



> A few years ago, Poisontaster wrote a completely awesome fic set in an AU world where slavery had been legalized. The "now" of her world is some time in the near-ish future -- there are asteroid mines -- but she didn't specify exactly when. Slavery had been reestablished during a huge economic crisis not too long ago, but not terribly recently either, and again, she didn't specify exactly when. My personal headcanon is that it happened during the Great Depression, but that's just me.
> 
>  _A Kept Boy_ was incredibly popular, and being a wonderful person, Poisontaster threw her world open to anyone who wanted to play in it, and established a community on LJ for folks to post or link their fics to. A lot of great writers wrote stories set in her verse, and I was inspired to play too. Note that this is a world of realistic, not romantic, slavery. It's cruel, brutal and dehumanizing, showing institutional slavery for the horrible blot on civilization that it is. The USA has become the North American Empire, surveillance is ubiquitous, and the divide between rich and poor is even wider than it is now. Past a certain level of income, slave ownership is mandatory, with stiff monetary penalties for failing to do one's part. Other writers, including Poisontaster, wrote stories with slave-owner characters who were good people, people who recognized the inherent evil of slavery and were abolitionists philosophically, whether they could take any action against it or not.
> 
> There are a lot of great fics built around that kind of character, but I decided to see what I could do with what I thought would actually be a more common sort of person -- someone who'd been raised with slavery, immersed in a society which included slavery and with a government and a society that had a vested interest in not only keeping that going, but in convincing everyone that slavery is right and good, and at least as beneficial for the people who find themselves enslaved as letting them flounder on their own. Heroes are people who can climb up out of the crowd and see that what they've been taught since infancy, the values and morality they took in with their mother's milk and which essentially everyone around them, at all levels of society, agrees are good and right, are actually evil and wrong. My main character is not a hero.
> 
> While writing, I struggled to maintain a balance between making my Lord Liam a man of his time, and making him a man the readers could at least like with some reservations. It was hard, and when this first went up on my journal, some readers decided Liam was an asshole and they hated him. Fair enough. I'll say, though, that by the end of the story he'd changed enough to surprise even me. How that happens is, hopefully, an entertaining story. Enjoy.

**[Thirty-Two Years Ago]**

"Neeson." The voice was strong and abrupt, obviously not one to be troubled with trivialities.

"Yes, um, My Lord, this is Walters from Commerce." Hesitant, wishing he were anywhere else.

"Yes?" Sharp, impatient.

"It's, that is, it's about your cook." _Really_ not wanting to be having this conversation.

"Yes? I'm coming for her this afternoon. Is there a problem?" Clearly there had better not be.

"Err, I'm afraid, that is, there's a baby, My Lord."

"I know that. I agreed she could bring the infant with her." You're an idiot and I'm going to hang up in about four seconds.

"No, or... I mean, yes, My Lord. But, err, there's another one. That is, she's pregnant, my Lord."

Silence.

"My Lord?"

"I hope you're not expecting me to pay extra."

"Er? Umm, no, My Lord! Of course not!"

"Fine."

Click. Dialtone.

"So? Did he want to choose someone else?"

"Umm, no, it seems not."

 

**[Today]**

There he was, right on time, and he was even alone. He always showed up at the grocery store at about the same time, between six and seven in the morning every Wednesday, when the place was stocked up but nearly empty of people. Sometimes he came with that older free man, and sometimes with the slave woman. A twofer would've been nice, but one was better than having to pass for another week, and this was the valuable one -- a collared body-slave, still beautiful even if not quite as young as they'd have liked.

He always parked in the same place, too, under the tree on the end; it was right across from the front of the market, and had only one other space next to it, minimizing the chance of damage to his master's car.

Marton had had Brendan park the van in the very next slot, cracked the sliding door panel open, and waited. The target had pulled in right next to them and everything went exactly according to plan. He got out, locked the car, and Marton grabbed him from behind. A gag stuffed into his mouth when he opened it to yell, a quick drag back inside the van. Sheen slammed the door shut while Marton's arms were full of struggling target, then Brendan pulled out and they were gone.

 

**[Twenty-Six Years Ago]**

"Maggie! What've you got for me?"

Margaret Bloom glanced over her shoulder and gave her master the smile and quick nod which served as a show of respect whenever she was tending something hot. He'd told her when he'd first picked her and baby Samantha up from Commerce that staying on her feet and serving him more of the excellent food he'd tasted before choosing her was the kind of respect he wanted. Dropping something time-critical just to kneel or bow and then serving him burnt garbage was disrespectful and would get her punished.

She said, "I packed your saddlebag with chicken and biscuits, apple salad and chocolate turnovers, and two bottles of bock. If there was something else you'd like, I can get it for you in a moment."

That afternoon she was sauteing shallots and mushrooms and therefore stayed standing. She heard a shuffle and thump behind her, though, and gave a quick wince, then smiled to herself where no one could see. Another glance behind her, lower down this time, showed her five-year-old son crouched on the floor at their master's feet, his forehead pressed to the toe of one big boot. The fork Orlando had been using to seal the edges of the ravioli she'd made earlier lay carefully on the rolling mat where it would stay clean; at least he hadn't dropped it this time in his eagerness to show off what he'd learned.

The kitchen was silent for a few moments, save for the hissing and crackling of hot fat, then Master Liam said, "You may stand, Orlando," his voice gentle but grave.

Margaret gave the vegetables one more toss, then slid them into a bowl and turned in time to see Orlando climb to his feet, beam up at the man towering above him, and ask, "Did I do it right?"

She rolled her eyes and saw one corner of Master Liam's mouth quirk in a not-quite-suppressed grin. He was a stern master, fair when served well by free or slave, but not a man with whom any but his peers would presume, and he had few peers. Little Orlando was one of the few people Maggie had ever seen him smile at.

It alarmed her and brought up fears she did her best to suppress. It wasn't as though she could do anything to prevent them from coming true.

"You did very well, Orlando," Master Liam said.

The little boy's face beamed even brighter and he threw his arms around his master's leg. Maggie tried not to notice how his face was just around thigh level.

"Thank you!" Orlando gave Master Liam a sunny smile, then took a step backward and gave him a perfect ninety-degree standing bow before dashing back to the table and his task. She could see him watching Master Liam for a reaction, though, and she was sure Master Liam could see it too.

"Fearless little monkey," he said. He gave the boy's messy brown curls a ruffle on his way across the kitchen to where Maggie had left his saddlebags, near the back door. "This will do nicely, Maggie. I'll be back for dinner, and might have a couple of guests with me."

"Yes, Master." Maggie bowed as he left, and Orlando scrambled off his chair to bow again too. Master Liam strode out, his saddlebags slung over one shoulder and an unfrosted cupcake pilfered from a cooling rack in his hand, without looking around to see either of them give him that respect. He just assumed they would, and of course he was right.

She watched Orlando bounce back onto his chair once more, her eyes and mouth pinched with worry. She should start sending Orlando out to tend the herb garden with Samantha, keep him out of the way. He still had a hard time telling the herbs from the weeds, but Samantha was a good, responsible girl and could mind him. Master Liam might well go by the small patch of herbs from time to time, but he definitely came through the kitchen a few times a day when he was in residence -- the man had an insatiable appetite for sweets and was constantly grazing on them, whether from regular meals, trays she sent him, or whatever he could lay hands on in the kitchen itself. That made the kitchen no place for Orlando. He was five, after all, and an adorable little devil, even if she _was_ his mother. She'd known masters and mistresses who'd shown undesirable interest in slaves that young, no matter what the legal age was.

She couldn't prevent it, but she might be able to delay.

 

**[Today]**

Marton buckled the gag while Sheen jabbed a hypo into the target's thigh right through his pants leg. Intravenous would work faster than intramuscular, but getting the slave to lie still and then finding a vein in the moving van, no matter how carefully Brendan drove, would negate any speed advantage so they did it the easy way. With the gag secure, Marton pulled a pillowcase over the slave's head before he had a chance to see any of them; the chance of him escaping before being fully processed was minuscule, but Marton wasn't ready to take any risks when a random traffic accident could end up with the whole pack of them convicted and facing Commerce themselves.

He tossed the still-struggling body down onto the floor before bracing himself against the sway of the van turning, then turning again, then the bump out of the parking lot. Finally they were on the main road and would have a minute or so of straight, smooth driving.

The target kicked and Marton cursed, rubbed his thigh, then slammed the target's forehead into the floor of the van. It was carpeted so it shouldn't leave a permanent mark, but knocking him silly -- or even just teaching him to stay still -- before the ketamine took hold would make things that much easier.

Marton tugged the target's shirt open, pulled it off and stuffed it into a grocery bag, then picked up the scanner and flicked it on. Sheen pulled off the slave's shoes, socks, trousers, briefs, each to go into their own plastic sack, while Marton ran the scanner over the target's torso. That was usually where... there. The scanner beeped just below the slave's left shoulderblade.

Marton put the scanner away in its case and picked up a scalpel, while Sheen lay his body over the slave's shoulder and head, with one leg pressing over his hips, to hold him down. Marton made a quick incision, ignored the muffled scream and feeble jerk when the body under his hands convulsed, then reached in with tweezers and pulled out the chip. It went down on top of a metal toolbox. He took a hammer out of the lower drawer and Crack! the chip was shattered. One down.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some more notes, about characters: There are a lot of characters in this fic, both celeb and NPC. I've tried to list all the celeb characters who have speaking parts in the "Characters" section; most of the folks there are pretty minor.
> 
> I do know what Orlando's mother's name is. My RPS policy is that friends and relatives who are celebs/actors in their own right -- like Samantha Bloom -- are fair game. Those who aren't, aren't. Margaret Bloom is an invention of mine, and bears no resemblance in detail that I know of to Orlando's realspace mother.


	2. Chapter 2

**[Twenty-Four Years Ago]**

Liam headed out the back door with half a dozen warm cookies in one hand and a briefcase in the other. There were few fine days in January, even in Almaden, and after the previous week's freeze he meant to enjoy the sunshine outside on the deck. He might even get some work done.

He was barely halfway across the lawn when he felt a tug on one trouser leg. He looked around, then down.

"Orlando." He grinned down at the little boy, and got a matching grin in return. "Done with your chores?"

Orlando gave him an enthusiastic nod. "I got all the rocks out of the herb patch so Samantha can plant -- she's gonna show me how but not till tomorrow -- and I weeded around the rosemary bush. I can go really fast now."

"I'll bet you can. I don't suppose your nose led you to these cookies?"

"You have cookies?" Orlando's smile brightened and he craned his head back and forth while trotting along, trying to keep up and see around to Liam's other hand at the same time.

"What, you didn't know? I suppose you just wanted my company, then?"

Orlando nodded. "You're hardly ever here. You just got home yesterday and Mama said you're leaving again on Monday."

Liam climbed the three broad steps up to the deck, Orlando still clinging to his trouser leg. "Well, I suppose since I'm not around to spoil you very often, I might give you a cookie if you're good."

"Thank you, Master!"

The deck spread out in a curve, surrounded on three sides by grass -- dry and brown at this time of year -- and approached by a tamped gravel path Liam usually ignored. The fourth side extended over the lake, and half of the deck was covered with a lanai of narrow boards overhead, giving partial shade. Liam settled down on a comfortably padded bench on the sunny side of the deck, with a good view of the lake and the surrounding scrubby woods. Orlando sank to his knees at Liam's feet, his back straight and his palms up on his thighs.

Maggie never did that, and wouldn't have taught Orlando a body-slave's present position, so the boy must've been watching Johnny, and maybe the body-slaves of various guests who'd passed through. There were a few places around that barn of a mansion where a small boy could watch the grown-ups without being seen; Liam had used them when he was that age.

He said, "Very good," and handed Orlando one of the cookies. He got a "Thank you!" back and a quick hug around one knee, and the boy even managed to eat his cookie without getting crumbs all over himself.

Liam opened his briefcase and took out a stapled packet. He settled back with the draft contract in one hand and a cookie in the other, the other four stacked on his right knee. Orlando, having demonstrated his (new?) skill and gotten his reward, stayed kneeling but leaned forward, with his arms crossed on Liam's left thigh and his chin propped on his arms, apparently content to just look out over the lake and watch the ducks. Liam was content to leave him be.

 

**[Today]**

A bolt cutter took care of the collar. Two down.

It was a nice one, a series of curved, square plates jointed together, in a warm gold that accented the slave's olive skin. The plates were small enough to be comfortable -- it wasn't a posture collar or anything like it -- but wide enough for each plate to have an engraved scrollwork design around the edge, surrounding a sunburst with a circle around it. Or maybe an oval. Whatever. All the important info was inside, in the electronics buried in one of the plates.

Not that Marton cared. Neither the slave's name nor the master's name mattered at all.

The van pulled into the loading bay behind their building, one of a string of rented properties they'd used over the last four and a half years since Marton had come up with the routine. They could pack and move out thoroughly on half an hour's notice, or quickly enough not to leave any evidence which would directly identify any of them within eight minutes.

Sheen hopped out of the van carrying all the plastic grocery bags with everything that'd been on the slave, including the crunched remains of the chip, got into a non-descript Ford and pulled out before the bay doors rolled down. They'd taken the cash from the wallet; Sheen would discard everything else the slave'd had on him in ten different grocery sacks, in ten different trash bins and dumpsters in six different cities to the northeast and northwest, up either side of the bay. Even if this location was compromised, no search of the surrounding neighborhood -- a run-down industrial park in north San Jose -- would turn up any evidence of the slave, or of the two others they'd grabbed since setting up here.

Marton hauled the slave out of the back of the van while Brendan ran to get the gurney. They strapped him onto it, ignoring his weak twitching and whining.

He'd already swabbed the incision where the chip had come out with alcohol, but he'd do a better job now of cleaning it out and making sure it closed without a scar.

Next he'd take care of the brand. Remove the branded skin, all the way down through the dermis, and glue in a patch of synthetic grow-matrix. The fine mesh protected the open area while encouraging skin cells to grow all across the surface at once, rather than from the outside in. The protein the matrix was composed of would be absorbed as the new skin grew. Within a few weeks, if he did it properly and everything went well, the patch would heal up perfectly.

There were other methods for dealing with the tattoo he'd noticed on the slave's abdomen. A cut and some scraping and maybe a bit of solvent, then glue the incision and it should be invisible within ten days, two weeks at the outside. He'd be able to tell within a few days whether the result would be acceptable; if not, there'd still be time to patch it.

Simple procedures, and much more lucrative than slaving for an HMO ever had been. And without all the insurance and licensing shit, either.

 

**[Twenty Years Ago]**

"But why do you have to go so soon? You just got here." Liam could tell Orlando was trying not to whine, but he was eleven and whining came fairly naturally. The boy was making a good effort, though, so Liam only smacked him on the back of the head. He even answered his question.

"I have to go to New York and see about some people who are trying to steal one of my companies."

Orlando startled at the smack, but didn't make a noise or even rub his head. He hung onto his fishing pole and just hunched his shoulders a bit. "How can someone steal a whole company?" he asked. His voice was lower and a bit closer to a proper slave's neutral tone this time. Even though a proper slave wouldn't have asked in the first place.

Liam shifted in his chair, a padded, folding number made specially for campers and fishermen. They were out on a pier, near a shaded pool along one arm of the lake, where there were some decent trout who occasionally deigned to nibble on one's bait. Orlando was sitting on the edge of the pier, his bare feet dangling off the end, leaning back against Liam's knee.

"It's done with bribery and proxies and shell corporations," Liam said, not expecting Orlando to understand a word, but thinking he might get the gist of it. He was right.

Orlando turned and gave him a fierce glare. "They're cheating!"

"Essentially, yes." There were definitely some illegalities involved, as well as breaches of ethics on the part of several parties. Proving it in court, or to the Bar Association, would be difficult. Liam preferred a more direct approach, and had made plans to pursue one.

Apparently Orlando agreed.

"You should smash them," he said firmly.

Liam had to chuckle at that. "You've been watching too many cartoons, I think. You're starting to sound like a villain."

"I am not!" Orlando insisted, apparently too caught up in his protest to notice that he'd directly contradicted his master. "They're the ones cheating! They're trying to steal something that's yours! You should beat them up!"

He knew he should chastise the boy. Punish him, even. But he also knew from experience that Orlando was smart enough to confine his more outrageous outbursts to times when they were alone; even at eleven he knew _that_ much. And since there was therefore no possibility of the boy embarassing him before anyone else, Liam didn't see any particular reason to smack down such a staunch supporter.

Besides, he agreed wholeheartedly.

"Perhaps I will," was all he said. Orlando gave a satisfied nod and turned his attention back to his fishing.

 

**[Today]**

Margaret leaned out the kitchen door and called, "Samantha?"

"Yes, Mama?" Samantha was stripping leaves off the last of the basil, except for the two best plants from that year, which she'd let go to seed. She stood up and wiped her sleeve across her forehead -- even mid-morning in October, the work was warming enough to get her sweating -- then headed over to see what her mother wanted, taking the half-full basket with her.

"Have you seen Orlando? He should've been back over an hour ago."

Samantha frowned. "No, I haven't."

"Do you think he might be down at the stable?" Her mother sounded dubious, but was clearly working herself into a fret.

"I can't imagine he would," Samantha said. "Not with groceries in the car, perishables. That'd be stupid. Orlando's thoughtless at times but he's not stupid."

"No, not usually." Margaret bit her lip and stared off in the direction of the road. They couldn't see it from the kitchen door, but Samantha could imagine her mother hoping to hear the car, rehearsing a good scold for whatever had delayed Orlando.

They both stood there for a few seconds, staring off at nothing, then Margaret whispered, "What if something happened?"

Samantha draped an arm around her mother's shoulders and squeezed. "If he had an accident, someone would've called. Or they will soon."

Margaret nodded, but didn't relax at all. She turned and looked up at the kitchen ceiling, in the direction of the Master's office where he'd be at work by now, on the phone and the computer, possibly both at once. "I should tell the Master."

"No, not yet." Samantha's hand clutched at her mother's shoulder. "Wait another hour. There might've been something, an accident, something that blocked traffic. There's no reason to just assume Orlando's been hurt. The fact that no one's called is _good_ news -- there's no reason to disturb the Master yet."

"He'll be more angry if we wait."

"Only if there's reason. Please? Another half hour at least?" Samantha didn't often beg her mother for anything, but she was getting frightened. Master Liam in a rage was terrifying and she was still hoping that it would turn out to be nothing, that Orlando would drive up any minute now with a story about road repair or something that'd backed up traffic for miles between the estate and the shopping center where they got groceries.

He had to be all right.


	3. Chapter 3

**[Seventeen Years Ago]**

Orlando leaned up against the arena fence, his chin resting on his folded arms, and watched his master working Sassy Lady, one of the new horses Johnny had brought back from auction the week before. They all four had potential -- good points and decent movement -- but they all needed schooling, and two of them were going to need some rehabilitation before they were really useful. That was why Johnny'd been able to come back with four instead of the two and maybe three he and Master had discussed. The behavior problems were enough to slash the prices on Majorette and Palisade.

Palisade had been turned out into the small yard next to the arena. Master Liam had already worked her some that morning, but the idea was to let her get used to her new home, the other horses, and having people around who weren't going to crop her raw. Master Liam was awesome with horses, like he was with everything else, and he'd gentled her down a lot already.

She was a gorgeous bay, with a springy trot and a natural flexibility to her spine. She was also the spookiest of the four horses. She liked Orlando, though; he'd groomed her a few times, and had brought her apples and carrots from the kitchen.

Master Liam had paused and was leaning over to talk to Mr. Irons, the stable master, over the fence a good fifty feet away from where Orlando was loitering. The few others, both slave and free, who'd been watching wandered away, to either delayed tasks or other amusements. Orlando wandered away too, but only so far as the small yard.

He clicked softly to Palisade and dug in his pocket for a hunk of stale gingerbread. Climbing up on the fence and perching with both legs on the inside let him get up to the right height.

When the mare came sidling over, curious greed finally winning out over caution, he fed her the cake and glanced over his shoulder. No one was watching, but everyone who mattered -- meaning his master -- was well within sight.

Orlando grinned. He'd been riding since he was tiny, on a pony Master Liam had bought just for him and Samantha. He'd finally been allowed on full sized horses two years ago -- after waiting far too long if anyone had asked him, which they hadn't, and even Mr. Irons said he was a good rider, sensitive to the horses, and fearless, even if he was a scrawny little thing.

He would've snorted if he hadn't been afraid of spooking Palisade. He _wasn't_ scrawny! He'd grown two inches in the last year; it wasn't his fault if his muscles hadn't caught up.

Everyone agreed he was an excellent rider. And he wasn't stupid -- he'd never have taken Palisade, or any of the new horses, out before they'd been gentled down by his master and Mr. Irons. He knew his limits, even if nobody else thought so. But he'd been making friends with Palisade and she was comfortable around him. He'd had years to watch how Master Liam did it and how it worked; you just had to know how to relate to the animals, and he and Palisade got along great.

Palisade finished her gingerbread and nuzzled Orlando's hand for more. He didn't have any more, but he gave her a scritch, then leaned over and ran his hand over her back, giving it a bit more weight as he went. She snorted, but didn't shy away.

Of course not. She liked him.

Supporting his weight on the fence, he swung a leg over her and then settled very slowly and carefully down onto her back. She was warm and solid, and her coat was slick from a recent grooming. He shifted his weight and clucked to her, then grasped her mane with one hand. She tossed her head and started forward at a walk through the long grass, calm as anything.

He wanted to whoop but knew better, so he settled for craning his head around toward his master, hoping he was watching.

Orlando's huge grin faded when he saw that his master was, indeed, watching, but wasn't smiling at all. He didn't look pleased, or proud. In fact, he looked angry. He'd come out the arena gate with Sassy and was cantering over toward the gate to the small yard.

All of Orlando's pride and happiness left him like air from a punctured balloon. He knew he was going to get one of Master Liam's whip-crack tongue lashings, and maybe a thrashing on top of it. He'd been so sure that if he could just prove he _could_ do it, then everything would be fine, but it didn't look like it.

Not wanting to add anything to the coming scold, he kneed Palisade over and clucked to her, trying to encourage her to turn toward the gate so he could at least meet his master partway. Maybe if went straight up to meet his punishment, it wouldn't... well, something.

That was the idea at least, but Palisade wasn't trained to knee aids alone, or didn't feel like obeying just then, or something. Instead she stamped a couple of times and flushed a dirt-colored dove out of the grass. Orlando saw it fluttering up, practically under Palisade's fore hooves, just in time to tighten his thighs and grab her mane with his free hand.

She squealed out a whinny and reared up hard. Orlando's bareback experience was restricted to well-behaved horses and he slammed forward when she landed. His face cracked against her spine, or maybe it was the back of her skull -- something big and solid and covered with hair and that was as much as he knew because his head was spinning and blood was leaking into his eyes and all he could think about was hanging on as Palisade galloped off in a spooked panic.

They were airborn for one long breath, then landed and Orlando's face slammed into her again. He still couldn't see and his face was one big knot of pain and he hung on as tight as he could, just hoping he could stay on the mare's back until she ran down and stopped.

He heard another set of hooves come pounding up behind them, and his first thought was, No! Don't chase her, she'll just keep going!

Whoever it was kept coming despite Orlando's frantic thoughts, however, and he couldn't quite gather enough wits or breath to form words and shout. The hooves got closer and closer, then a strong arm snagged him around the waist and hauled him off Palisade by force.

The shock of being grabbed in mid-gallop startled him into letting go, which was just as well because otherwise he'd have ended up with a double handful of Palisade's mane torn out by the roots. He yelled in panic when there was just air under him for a terrified heartbeat, then he slammed face-down across a horse's withers and had all the breath knocked out of him so he couldn't even babble out the thanks that were ricocheting around in his skull.

That turned out to be just as well; the next thing he heard was his master. "Do _not_ say a word. If you make a single sound, I'll thrash you right here and set Lady's training back a month."

Orlando swallowed hard and kept his mouth shut.

Usually the best thing in the world was to be cuddled up next to Master Liam, leaning against his knees or his shoulder, or just sitting near him while one of those big hands petted his hair while most of his master's attention was on a book or some business papers or his e-mail.

At that moment, though, and for far too many moments after, lying right up against his master was misery.

Orlando could feel his master's thighs under his cheek on one side and his own thighs on the other. His master's hand pressed down -- _hard_ \-- on the small of his back, making sure he was secure, if not comfortable. His master was right there, close to him, holding him, and so obviously furious that Orlando wanted to cry.

They rode across the lawn, the dry grass making light swish-crunch sounds as Lady moved through it for a few minutes. Then Orlando heard the softer muffled thuds of the horse moving across the lawn for a minute, then the crunch of the gravel drive. Then they stopped.

Master Liam dismounted and hauled Orlando off after him. He clamped one hand around Orlando's left biceps tight enough to cut off circulation and dragged him up the steps and into the house, still blind and stumbling, then up the front staircase and down the hall into Master Liam's bedroom, where his master threw him onto the bed, where Orlando immediately curled up and buried his face in his arms, so ashamed he didn't want his master even looking at him.

It'd only taken a few minutes to get in from... well, from however far into the open pasture Palisade had managed to get, but it'd been long enough that next time his master spoke, his voice was cold and hard instead of hot with rage. Orlando hoped that was good.

His master said, "If you _ever_ do anything so damnably idiotic again, I will thrash you within an inch of your life, _if_ you survive whatever fool stunt you pull. If you ever repeat this, or do anything like it, this beating will remind you of the paddlings you got from Maggie when you were a toddler. Do you understand?"

Orlando whispered, "Yes, Master." He couldn't have moved even if he'd wanted to. Having his master this angry made him miserable; he wanted to go dig a hole and bury himself and hide forever. He couldn't imagine any thrashing hurting any worse.

Master Liam undid Orlando's jeans with a few quick jerks, then yanked them and his underwear down to his knees and shoved Orlando onto his stomach. A moment later, the first stroke hit. What hit him was a cane, and Orlando screamed.

He'd never been caned before, or hit with anything more solid than a hand. He didn't know how many strokes he got, since his master didn't require him to count them and Orlando's brain was in too much of a panicked flail as it tried to figure out how to detach itself from his agonized ass to count on its own. Looking back, it couldn't have been more than a few strokes, but at the time it was more than enough to have him wailing and sobbing and getting tears and snot all over his master's bedspread.

Master Liam left him alone for a few moments, then Orlando yelled again when a cold, damp washcloth was draped over his burning ass. His master's hand rubbed gently up and down his back, caressing him through his T-shirt, and he felt his master's lips press a slow kiss into his sweaty hair, then his forehead rested against Orlando's head just above his ear.

"You could have died." His master's voice was low. He sounded exhausted. "When you hit your head, then went over the fence, I thought for sure you were going to break your neck, or your head, or get trampled."

Orlando managed to turn his face in his master's direction, even though he still couldn't see, and whispered, "I'm sorry."

Master Liam made a startled noise and said, "Damn." The still-damp but now much warmer washcloth was peeled off of Orlando's throbbing ass and his master carefully cleaned the tacky-drying blood off his face -- his eyes first, then his nose and cheeks, his lips and chin.

"There," he said when he'd finished. "Nothing broken, by whatever miracle." Then, a few moments later, "Look at me."

Orlando pried his eyes apart, reluctance as much as any lingering crud making the task difficult.

His master was kneeling next to the bed, which was enough of a surprise on its own. The next surprise was that he didn't look angry anymore -- not at all. He looked sad and worried, and he had the "thinking" crease between his eyebrows.

"I'm sorry," Orlando said again. It was all he could think of, because the idea of even _trying_ to explain himself, to put into words what he'd been thinking when he'd gotten onto Palisade's back without even a saddle or bridle, made him cringe.

"I know," Master Liam said. "You're still a fearless little monkey, and we've been lucky so far. Even fearless monkeys need to exercise good judgement, though. And until that develops, discipline will do.

"I've left you too much to your own devices," he admitted. It was the first time Orlando could ever remember hearing his master admit a mistake. "You should have been studying for something all along, learning to make yourself useful in a more focused way. I'll admit I liked just having you about the place, but that's not good enough anymore; you're too old for children's chores."

His master said no more on the subject that day. Orlando stayed in Master Liam's room until bedtime, with a cool lotion spread gently across his hot, swollen backside, then a warm blanket to cover him and his master next to him, reclining on the bed with a book in one hand and his other rubbing Orlando's back, just like they'd done so many times before.

Orlando was worried that they'd never be able to spend time together like that again, that his stupidity had made his master decide to send him away for some kind of training. Or maybe even sell him. He could only fret for so long, though, and eventually he fell asleep.

 

**[Today]**

"I don't give a good god- _damn_ about the insurance!" Liam bellowed, stabbing the unlucky police detective in the chest with one blunt finger. "And if that's all you have to say to me, you can get your incompetent ass out of my house and off my property and I'll find someone who knows his fucking _job_ and can track down the sorry bastards who took my boy!"

The detective flinched but didn't take a step backward, which was a point in his favor. A very minor point. Instead he held up his hands in a clear attempt to be conciliating, put a sympathetic look on his face and said, "Lord Neeson, I realize this is a stressful time. I know it's difficult to lose a slave. You must have cared for him very much. But--"

"What I _care_ about is _finding_ those bastards and making them pay!" Liam's finger stabbed out again, hard enough that he was sure the detective would see bruises when he got undressed that evening. "They stole something that belongs to me and _no one_ gets away with disrespecting me like that! They're going to be sorry they were ever born!" The fucker was treating him like one of those pathetic idiots who fell in "love" with their body-slaves, and Liam wasn't having any. Absolutely no one got away with disrespecting him, and if this sorry little shit thought he was going to get to be patronizing and then have a good laugh with his friends at Liam's expense, he had a thing or two still to learn.

"Yes, My Lord! I mean, no, My Lord!" The detective swallowed, his eyes huge and round, and his jaw clenching so hard Liam thought it was about to crack. Good.

"Now get the hell out of here and don't come back until you have something useful to say. And that had better be tomorrow."

"Yes, My Lord!" The detective managed an awkward bow and left the room. He didn't quite scurry but it was a near thing. Liam hoped the fool had figured out exactly what he meant when he said "sorry they'd ever been born," and that he intended to pass the feeling on to enough subordinates to get some fucking _work_ done and find Orlando.


	4. Chapter 4

**[Fifteen Years Ago]**

Orlando came bouncing in to the kitchen and called, "Morning, Mama!" He gave her an enthusiastic kiss on the cheek and a quick hug from behind, then said "Morning, Glory!" and winked at the elderly lady over by the corner window. Gloria smiled back at him and waved a paring knife before picking up another apple to peel.

His mama spun around and reached up to grab Orlando by the shoulders. "Orlando! How are you?" She looked him up and down, studying him like she expected to find gaping wounds or a broken arm or something. Orlando rolled his eyes and squirmed away.

"I'm _fine,_ Mama," said Orlando, barely managing to keep from saying something sarcastic enough for a smack with a wooden spoon. "It was wonderful and I was perfect and Master Liam was very happy with me."

Margaret still looked upset, but Gloria gave him a thumbs-up from behind his mother's back. He winked at her, then went to rummage around in the fridge. Master had shared his breakfast less than an hour earlier, but Orlando was always hungry and there was a chunk of leftover gratin from the previous night -- perfect. He pulled it out, grabbed a fork, and went over to Gloria's table, ignoring his mother. She'd just fret him to death if he gave her half a chance and he wasn't about to let her mess up his mood.

Orlando kept a stealthy watch on her and waited until she'd turned back to the dough she was kneading before sitting slowly and carefully. Both of the chairs at Gloria's table were padded, but he couldn't prevent a silent wince as his sore ass took his weight.

Gloria gave him a sassy grin and whispered, "The master's something, isn't he?"

Orlando giggled and nodded. "He's perfect!" he whispered back, and he and Gloria shared silent memories in the language of smiles. It was sort of weird having _that_ kind of understanding with a woman twenty years older than his mother, but Mama was weird about Orlando and Master Liam, and he'd never felt comfortable sharing his love of the master's company -- or his more recent pleasure at finally being chosen -- with her.

Gloria got it, though. She'd never been a body-slave, but the older slaves around the place all said she'd been pretty when she was young, and he hadn't been too surprised to hear she'd shared the master's bed a few times, back before Orlando'd been born. She'd been the head gardener for ages, even for those last few years when arthritis in her knees and an aching back had forced her to supervise the work while younger slaves provided the labor. A fall that'd broken her hip and kept her in bed for weeks had ended all that.

Master Liam had had the small table and chairs moved into the kitchen, into the sunny corner by the window. Gloria did a few things in between cups of coffee -- peeled and cut produce, sliced bread, fixed flowers -- stuff she could do sitting down, stuff that didn't take a lot of strength or effort, or much precision, or much speed. Mama and Samantha could've done anything Gloria did, better and faster, but that wasn't the point. She _was_ helping and got to feel useful, so she didn't have to worry about the master selling her for being worthless, or putting her down. Not that he'd do that anyway, but it was cool of him to give her something to do and let her feel like she could help out.

"So?" Gloria whispered, "how'd you do? Last night was your big test, wasn't it?"

Orlando nodded and gave her a smug grin. "I was perfect!"

"Your whole vocabulary is 'perfect,'" she retorted. "Details, boy."

He blushed and took a big bite of cheesy potatoes, chewing while pulling himself back together. He swallowed and said, "Master said Mr. Travers said I've been working hard and doing really well, and that Johnny agreed. Then after we were done last night--" Orlando had to work hard not to look down, and could feel his face heating up again, "--Master said he agreed too!" He beamed at Gloria, who gave him a grin back and a high-five.

"That's excellent news, honey," she said. "And a good career path. You keep working on your reading, pay attention to the Master's affairs, and you can be an Agent when you get too old for the bedroom, travel around, do important work."

Orlando ducked his head and bit his lip. Reading was _hard._ That wasn't something Mr. Travers had been concerned with in their three-times-a-week lessons, but Orlando knew it'd be important if he ever wanted to be more than a bedslave. _Real_ body-slaves represented their masters and did business for them; Johnny got to travel by himself sometimes -- that'd be fun!

He'd have to really work on all the other stuff, though, the books and computers that never seemed to make much sense to him no matter how hard he tried. And he _would!_ He wasn't stupid and he _could_ do it. The thought of Master Liam being disappointed with him made his stomach twist.

That wasn't something he wanted to think about that morning, though. It was a perfect morning and he wanted to stay happy.

"Master Liam said I could ask a favor." His grin returned, remembering that. "I said, if he approved, I wanted to have a tattoo." He patted his belly, on the left, a little below his belt.

"Like Johnny's?" asked Gloria. "You'll be a matched set, the two of you."

"Kinda, but not exactly. Same place, but I want something different, something that'd, you know, show people I belong to the Master." Orlando felt himself blushing again, but this was the good kind so it didn't bother him too much.

Gloria raised an eyebrow. "So, what? The corporate logo?"

"Gloriaaaaa!" Orlando buried his head in his arms and groaned. She made is sound so _stupid!_

He felt a light pat on his elbow and Gloria said, "I'm sorry, honey. I was just making a joke." She sighed, then added, "It's really not a terrible idea, now that I think about it. A sunburst is a nice image. Just imagine if your master were Lord Gates -- would you really want _that_ stamped on your ass?"

And with that image Orlando was giggling again, and groaning at the same time. He dug into his snack with enthusiasm and looked forward to that night -- maybe Master Liam would call for him again.

 

**[Today]**

The hastily-exiting detective had had to swerve around two other people standing just inside the office doorway. Johnny was there, with his hand on the shoulder of a young, scruffy-looking girl in a cheap, polyester shirt and pants. When he saw Liam looking at them, he bent into a perfect bow and shoved the girl down as well.

Liam eyed her and wondered who she was. He'd never seen her before, which meant she must have some information about Orlando. Johnny'd know better than to bother him with anything else right then, short of the house being on fire or the imminent collapse of the Western economy.

"Well?" he snapped. "Who are you? Get over here." He pointed to the floor right in front of him.

The girl gave a squeak and dashed over, then fell to her knees with a crash and pressed her forehead to the toe of his boot. Her awkward position and stressed trembling screamed Don't Beat Me! and he made an effort to calm down. Bellowing at that fool of a detective had been useful as well as satisfying. Frightening this slave into incoherent silence wouldn't help at all.

"Stand up, girl," he said, willing his voice to a lower volume and calmer tone. "Johnny? Who is she?"

Johnny moved a few steps closer, then bowed again. Liam was definitely giving off dragon-vibes if Johnny was going hyper-formal on him.

"Master, this is Cally. She belongs to the supermarket. Cally, tell Lord Neeson what you told me earlier."

Cally climbed slowly back to her feet, cringing and biting her lip. Liam wanted to bellow at her again, but exercised patience instead and just nodded to her.

"Umm, well, this morning I was stocking boxes of firewood -- it's up by the front, in front of the registers, under the windows? I do that every morning in the fall and winter, when it's cold. Your slave comes every Wednesday morning and I watch for--" She stopped and cringed again, looking up at him as though she expected to be smacked for the crime of watching out for a pretty slave boy. Liam set his jaw and just nodded again.

"Well, he always comes in around the same time so I was watching. I saw him drive up and he parked, there under the tree at the front where he always does. There was a van in the next space. Not a new one, or an SUV, but one of the old ones, without any windows? I couldn't really see 'cause it was on the other side, but your slave got out and someone came out of the van and they got in and drove away."

Liam untangled the story as best he could and asked, "Did the other person force him into the van?"

"I-- I don't know! I'm sorry, Master!" Cally fell back to her knees again and crouched down with her arms curled over her head.

Johnny murmured, "Cally...." and stepped forward. He went down on one knee beside her and rubbed her back. "Come on, girl, it's all right, get up."

"No, that's fine." Liam gave Johnny a "stay" hand signal without really thinking about it; Johnny nodded and settled down next to Cally, rubbing her back but letting her stay on her knees.

"So Orlando got into the van with this other person, maybe willingly and maybe not, and the van drove away, yes?"

"Yes, Master!"

"You didn't think to report this to anyone?"

Cally started shaking again. "I _did,_ Master! I swear! I ran and told the manager, but he said it wasn't our business! That the slave was probably just making some money on the side and it wasn't our business, that we'd just get him in trouble if we told anyone! I'm sorry, Master!"

Liam mentally added the store manager to his list of People Who Would Be Very Sorry and said, "That's all right, Cally. You did your best and it's not your fault the manager is an idiot." He turned around and picked up a pad and pen from his desk and handed them to Johnny. "Now, I want you to tell me everything you remember about the van, and about the person who took Orlando. Even if it's just a tiny thing that doesn't seem important, I want to know it."

While Johnny wrote down the slave's disjointed descriptions, the part of Liam's mind that wasn't listening made lists of other things to be done. Where there was one witness, there might've been others and they had to be found. Circulate Orlando's picture, make sure law enforcement was watching for his ID code to turn up -- the detective should have done that but Liam didn't trust him to sort paper clips, much less do anything useful without being double-checked.

Of course, there was one obvious reason why Orlando's locator chip wasn't pinging the search net, but that was unacceptable and Liam refused to consider it. A much more likely reason was that he'd been taken somewhere the signal couldn't penetrate -- someplace with enough metal all around to act as a faraday cage. As soon as they moved him, though, the boy's signal would show up again.

He'd hire a private detective. Get someone competent on the job, someone who answered only to him.

Liam nodded to himself and asked Cally another question.


	5. Chapter 5

**[Fourteen Years Ago]**

Orlando spasmed to completion, his back arched and his toes curled tight and his head thrown back, while his hips pumped his release into Johnny's clenching ass. Johnny was encouraging him with shifting hips and tightening muscles and caressing hands, while gasping out words of praise.

They collapsed together in a tangle of bedsheets, Orlando's head tucked under Johnny's still-perfectly-chiseled jaw. Johnny's hand brushed lightly up and down Orlando's sweat-slicked back, slow and langorous with afterglow.

Orlando knew he wasn't finished yet, though, so he hauled his own unsteady ass out of bed and moved as gracefully as he could to the bathroom. He came back with a damp washcloth -- warm water -- and cleaned Johnny off, then himself. The washcloth he tossed into the laundry hamper, before settling back down onto the bed for a cuddle.

He'd been surprised by this lesson. He'd thought he was finished, at least with the formal training part. The last six weeks had been practicing things he'd done before, and neither Johnny nor Mr. Travers -- whose contract had ended two weeks earlier -- had ever had him top. Master Liam certainly never had.

Once they'd cooled off and recovered enough brain cells to carry on a coherent conversation, he asked.

Johnny said that he should know how, in case the Master ever wanted to watch him fuck someone else, but that it was all right if he wasn't too expert at it. Preferable, even. "You're still his fearless little monkey," Johnny explained. He was grinning, but there was a flash of cynicism in his eyes. "He likes to see you diving into things you might not be great at yet, because you want to and you're not afraid to try. And if you're doing it because he asked, so much the better, especially if it's not something you could break your neck doing."

Orlando grinned and stuck his tongue out at him. "I _like_ climbing. And it's perfectly safe -- I'm always harnessed and the floors are padded and everything."

"You're still insane, but I think that's one of the things he likes about you, when it's not driving up his blood pressure."

"It's perfectly safe!" Orlando repeated, letting some impatience color his voice. Everyone around him did nothing but worry and fret. His mother always had, but now most of the household did too. Maybe it was contagious? "I've never even asked about anything actually dangerous. I'd love to learn to sky-dive, or go bungie jumping, or--"

Johnny groaned and buried his head under a pillow. "Do _not_ ever mention anything like that. He'll shackle you to the bed and never let you out."

"Really?" Orlando put on an eager-puppy expression that was over the top even for _him_ and bounced up and down on the mattress a few times. "You really think so? Maybe I should try it -- that sounds like fun!"

Johnny groaned again and smacked him with the pillow. They whooped and whacked each other until the sound of something ripping just a tiny bit brought them back to reality, then grinned at each other and started cleaning up the room. Johnny straightened up all the stuff strewn around while Orlando stripped and remade the bed.

After working together in silence for a minute, Orlando glanced over at Johnny and said, "Hey. Can I ask you something?"

Johnny cocked his head and paused to look at him. "You can always ask. I won't promise to answer."

"Do you... I mean, does it feel weird or, or like a bummer or maybe.... I mean, do you mind...?" Orlando stumbled to a halt and just shrugged, staring down at the pillowcase twisted in his hands.

"Do I mind... what? Being retired? Or kicked upstairs, however you want to look at it? Being replaced? Being replaced by _you?"_

Orlando nodded, still unable to look up.

"Yeah. And no." Johnny came over and pulled Orlando against him for a hug. "Look at me, monkey. You're supposed to be the brave one."

That was twisting the knife, and Orlando glared up at him.

"There you go. Never be afraid to look another slave in the eye. You're a body-slave now, which means you're as good as anyone else with a collar."

"Not yet," Orlando muttered.

"All right, fine. As of tomorrow, you'll be as good as anyone. And no, I don't really mind. I'll miss it, yeah -- the Master's generous in bed. We're lucky and I hope you know it."

He paused and Orlando nodded. He definitely knew he was lucky, to have someone like Master Liam look at him, smile at him, _want_ him.

"So yeah, I'm gonna miss it. But I'm getting up there a little, for a body-slave. I'd rather leave the job now, while I'm still on top of the game, and move over to the business side while I've still got my looks. They're good for more than charming the Master, you know?" He winked and gave Orlando a flirty pout. "This way, no one'll think the only reason I'm Lord Neeson's full-time Agent is because I got too old and ugly for his bed. And you can still work the goods when you're doing buys and negotiations and anything else where you can use whatever advantage you can get."

"I guess." Orlando kind of understood, in his brain, but his gut was still dubious. He couldn't imagine ever being happy, even only _partly_ happy, to be leaving his master's bed. Not that Master Liam couldn't still fuck Johnny whenever he wanted, but Orlando wanted to _be_ with him, to live with him and travel with him and take care of him, to be in his bed regularly. And he was pretty sure that if the time came -- come on, be realistic, _when_ the time came -- for him to be replaced by someone younger and prettier, he wasn't going to be anywhere near as cool about it as Johnny was being.

Which, of course, was one more thing he was lucky about.

 

**[Today]**

Orlando woke up, or at least struggled up to a fuzzy sort of semi-consciousness, with a bright light glaring down into his left eye. He tried to shade it with his hands, but he couldn't move his arms. He tried to move his head, to look and see what was holding his arms, but he couldn't do that either.

There was a dull pain on his neck, on the left side where he couldn't see. It was like a burn, or a really long cut. It was far away, as though there were a lot of distance between his neck and his brain and the pain could just barely reach.

He stopped trying to see what was wrong with his neck and focused his eyes off to the right, in the direction they were pointing anyway. He saw a white-draped table with someone lying on it and someone else standing next to it, their back to Orlando. Maybe the person on the bed was sleeping? They didn't move. But Orlando wasn't moving either and he wasn't asleep. He was proud of himself for thinking of that.

The person standing next to the table turned around and walked over toward Orlando and then behind his head where he couldn't see. The person looked like a doctor -- long gown and mask and headscarf-thing, and he -- he? Orlando thought it'd been a man -- had been carrying something white and flimsy in a pair of tweezers with a dish or a tray or something held under it.

A minute later there was a faint pressure-scrape-cool-pain-pressure feeling on the left side of his neck. He tried to protest but all that came out of his mouth was a sigh. He heard a murmur of voices but couldn't make out any of the words.

He floated in uncomfortable, disoriented nothing for some amount of time, then the man in the mask moved back into his view again, sort of. The man stood down near his hip and leaned over Orlando, reached up to pull the light closer and then leaned down again. Orlando felt another pressure-drag-pull-pressure, then a weird, detached scraping feeling, like getting scratched, only too deep and from a long way off.

Nothing was really happening and nothing was boring so Orlando drifted back into unconsciousness and everything faded away.


	6. Chapter 6

**[Twelve Years Ago]**

A brisk breeze blew off the lake, cooling the afternoon heat just enough to make a close scattering of chairs on the lawn more appealing than the air-conditioned space inside Sinclair's vacation cabin. It was spacious enough for what it was, but Sinclair had invited eight guests and their body-slaves, and the living area was somewhat cramped with everyone gathered, even with the slaves on the floor.

Sinclair's slaves had rigged a striped awning over the chairs, and had been busy shuttling cold drinks out from the kitchen for the last hour; Liam appreciated being able to stretch his legs out, and having enough space that he could retreat to a corner of the shaded area where only one or two people could approach at once. And occasionally -- as now -- he got some time to enjoy the scenery alone, or at least without having to make conversation with people who wanted something, even if those people were all around him, chatting and making deals.

The conversations had drifted from topic to topic, but always circled back around to business. That was, of course, what they were all there for, despite the leisurely facade thrown over the occasion by the surroundings and the few arranged activities. Sinclair craved a title and would probably have it within a few years; he was old money, he knew how to get things done, and he avoided the mistake most ambitious climbers made of trying too hard with too blatant an eye on the prize.

Unlike some people.

Mr. Roday was young and ambitious, but he bragged about himself too often, laughed too loudly at the Lords' and Ladies' jokes, and kept _two_ spectacularly dressed and made up body-slaves about him at all times, along with a basket of kittens in fake diamond collars.

The two slaves, a boy and girl a couple of years younger than Orlando, cooed and played with the kittens, clearly doing their best to be Too Adorable at all times, with childlike exclamations and sexy little pouts. It was all Liam could do to keep from rolling his eyes.

Orlando, who was curled up in the grass beside Liam's chair, arms crossed on one of Liam's thighs and his chin perched on top, tilted his head up and murmured, "I think they came to the end of their script. They're starting over. It's like a video on a loop."

At Liam's raised eyebrow, Orlando lowered his voice but put on an exaggeratedly wide-eyed expression and whispered, "Oh, pussy's so _soft!_ I could pet her all day!" then in a very slightly lower voice, "May I pet your pussy too?" Orlando giggled up at Liam and added, "That's exactly what they said when we first came out. I think they have a set of routines for when they've got the cats out, and they ran out of material."

Liam managed not to snort out a laugh, but it took some effort. "I just wish they'd keep better track of the things. Running their 'cute' act is apparently a higher priority than keeping the cats coralled. I thought they had seven earlier but they've been dashing all over the place and there are only five now." The cats were at least six months old and too big for their basket, and definitely too active for two people to keep control of out in the open.

Orlando nodded. "I feel sorry for them," he whispered. It took a moment for Liam to realize he was referring to the slaves and not the kittens. "They're acting ridiculous and they know it, but it's what their master wants, so...." He shrugged.

That was close to the edge, at least in public; Liam gave Orlando's arm a hard squeeze, then said, "Fetch me a sandwich. You may have one too if you want."

"Yes, Master." Orlando shifted his weight and rose gracefully to his feet, with none of the puppyish scrambling that'd characterized his movements as a gangly child. His walk over to the picnic table where platters of sandwiches, fruit and cookies were laid out was smooth and sexy without being blatant. He had on a plain yellow bathing suit and nothing else, which suited him very well; his sculpted chest, long legs and gorgeous face attracted attention all on their own, without the make-up and jewelry and fussy little accessories Roday had his slaves decked out in.

Orlando put one knee up on the table's bench and leaned over to lift the mesh fly-screen from the platter of sandwiches. His back was arched more than was strictly necessary, but that much flirting Liam would tolerate. His boy drew admiring looks from some of the others, those not too absorbed in their talk to notice the slaves moving around them, and Orlando's low-key sensuality was a credit to his master. At least, in the eyes of those with taste.

Just as Orlando turned around with a sandwich on a plate, Roday's girl let out a frightened little shriek. Liam's first thought was that she'd spotted a bee or a hornet but she jumped up and dashed toward the cabin calling, "Panther! Get down! Panther!"

Liam turned and looked, following her eye line; up on the roof of the cabin, a tiny silhouette against the bright sky, was a sleek, black kitten.

How the hell had the little thing gotten up there? Sinclair's "cabin" was modern and expansive, despite being a bit too small for twenty people. It was built into the side of a steep hill, and while the front was two stories tall, the side facing the lake was three. The kitten had made it all the way to the top somehow, and showed no sign of coming down any time soon.

Roday charged off and grabbed his girl by the hair. She got a good shake and a smack across the face to stop her carrying on, but no one seemed to know what to do about the kitten.

"We got a ladder that tall?" Sinclair asked his slave, Karl.

"No, Sir, I'm sorry, we don't."

"Dammit." Sinclair scowled. "Maybe a blanket it can jump into? With cat food or something?"

"Excuse me, Sir, but I could get it down, if Master will allow." Orlando handed Liam his sandwich while speaking, then bowed to Sinclair.

Sinclair looked at Liam and Liam looked at Orlando. He looked at the cabin -- the rustic-style cabin with stonework and decorative log siding and several balconies -- then looked back at Orlando and gave him a tight nod. "You _will_ be careful."

"Of course, Master." Orlando bowed and smiled up at him, then turned and dashed off up the slope to the cabin. Liam and Sinclair followed more slowly, with Karl trailing behind.

Liam had seen Orlando climb before, and much more difficult surfaces than the side of the cabin appeared to be. Of course, that had always been at the gym in town, and he'd been wearing a harness. Liam stopped a few paces back from the cabin and watched with his arms crossed and his jaw clenched.

Orlando hopped up onto the porch rail, then stepped onto the lip of the high stone foundation. He reached up and found a handhold on one of the logs in the facade, high over his head, then another. Then a toehold, and another. His long fingers and bare toes gripped and held in small slopes and cracks and gaps, and he moved slowly but smoothly up the wall. On the second floor he grabbed onto the balcony rail and swung himself up, then stood on it and jumped for a grip on the third floor balcony. An instant after that jump, Liam had to hold back a shout by sheer force of will.

Sinclair nudged him and Liam realized the man had said something a moment earlier. "I'm sorry, what did you say?"

"I said, as soon as we're done with this I'm going to put in an order for a couple extra security cameras. If your boy can get up to the third floor in ten seconds without even a rope, I hate to think what an actual burglar could manage." Sinclair's expression was lightly amused, which was perfectly appopriate to his comment.

"Good idea. Although I don't imagine there's all that much crime out here." Liam gave Sinclair a glance while addressing him, just to be civil, but he couldn't help looking back up at Orlando. He was standing on top of the third floor balcony rail right up against the wall, just a few feet from where the blasted kitten was perched.

Orlando called, "Here, kitty kitty!" and held out a hand, beckoning. The cat yowled and took a step backward. Orlando muttered something and grabbed the rain gutter with one hand, then leaned out to snag the kitten in a quick snatch, no fooling around.

The small crowd of people watching from all around Liam had just started to applaud when there was a sharp Crack! The section of gutter Orlando was hanging onto snapped off right next to his hand and swung down, the one attached side acting like a hinge, and Orlando went with it like the weight at the end of a pendulum. He gave a short squawk, then the guttering broke completely off and he fell in silence.

Liam couldn't move, could only watch the falling body. It was so high -- three stories -- and the landscaping up against the cabin's foundation was all rocks. A heartbeat later there was a sharp thud and Liam imagined he heard a snap.

He never clearly remembered the next hours. Sinclair had called a med-evac chopper without asking Liam, or if he'd asked, Liam hadn't noticed.

His next memory was of a doctor explaining just how much repair Orlando's broken back required, how much it would cost, and how small a chance there was of him ever walking again.

Then after that, leaning over Orlando -- on a gurney, splinted, strapped and cuffed face-down -- and a harsh whisper into his ear, "You _will_ get well," right before they took him in for surgery.

And he had. Orlando had always been a good, obedient slave, and he hadn't disappointed his master then, either.

 

**[Today]**

There was a polite knock on Liam's office door, then it opened and Johnny came in and stood to one side while an older man entered. "Lord Neeson, this is Mr. Thewlis."

Back already? Excellent. Thewlis had come highly recommended by a business associate who'd once needed the services of a thorough, skilled, discreet investigator. The man had only been on the job for twenty-four hours. If he was reporting back with results already, he was worth every dollar of his fee.

"Mr. Thewlis. I hope you bring good news."

Thewlis bowed, then approached Liam's desk and laid his briefcase on it. "Nothing definitive, I'm afraid. But a couple of pieces." He opened his case and pulled out a gold keyring with a gold disk fob. Liam recognized it and he clenched his jaw to choke back an unseemly exclamation.

"Johnny confirmed that this is the ring the keys to the Honda were on," said Thewlis.

Liam gave a sharp nod. "Where did you get it?"

"At a pawn shop, my lord. I took the list of everything Orlando had on him and started checking pawnshops. I found the keyring in a shop over in Fremont. A young woman brought it in yesterday."

"Have you found her?"

"Not yet, My Lord," Thewlis said with an apologetic bow of his head. "But there's more." He reached into the briefcase again and this time he had Orlando's collar.

Liam reached out to take it, then stopped himself. "Fingerprints? Anything?" He had to think. Reacting emotionally wouldn't help the situation. Logically the collar and keyring would both have been searched for evidence. They'd be in bags otherwise, wouldn't they? He wasn't quite ready to assume Thewlis's competence just yet, though, nor would he until he'd seen some proof of it.

"Nothing, I'm afraid. Both items had been cleaned before being displayed in the shops. I found the collar in Burlingame."

Burlingame and Fremont? Liam frowned and visualized a map of the area. Not _too_ far apart, over the Dumbarton, but still.... "This wasn't a one-time thing," he said.

"No, My Lord, I agree." Thewlis nodded and set the collar and keyring down on Liam's desk. "Whoever took your slave is going to a lot of trouble to make him untraceable. Even if we'd found all of his effects, the chances of his things providing enough clues for us to find him would be... let's say, acceptably low, from the point of view of someone who's decided to commit a serious crime in the first place and is therefore a risk-taker to some extent. A larger pattern, however, would eventually lead right to them. If they're taking slaves on a regular basis, then it would be worth their while to spread the evidence as far abroad as is practical."

"So, what?" Liam scowled and felt his temper rising. "There's a ring of slave-nappers working in the Bay Area? What would they do with them?" Even as he asked the question, though, several possibilities flashed through his mind and none of them were pleasant.

"There are a few possibilities, My Lord. I'll be investigating them and I'll let you know if I find anything promising. A more immediate question is how long they've been operating. If Orlando is their first theft then there won't be much to work with. If he's their twentieth then there's more likely to be evidence to be found, rumors, leads."

"He couldn't be their twentieth," Liam protested. "Or even their tenth. If there'd been a sudden rash of slaves vanishing, especially body-slaves, there would've been news."

"Would there?" Thewlis gave another apologetic bow of the head, then said, "I don't think there would. When a slave goes missing, the first thing anyone thinks of is a runaway. The authorities would rather not publicize missing slaves; it gives the others ideas."

"What wonderful news for the thieves." It made maddening sense, and Liam had a strong urge to punch something. Or someone. Not Thewlis; he had a brain in his head. Maybe that idiot police detective; why hadn't _he_ found Orlando's collar or the keyring? Liam was of a mind to ask him in person.


	7. Chapter 7

**[Twenty-Two Years Ago]**

The run-down house was filled with aging pizza boxes, scattered textbooks and the occasional stained and smudged bong. What it didn't have was air conditioning, and Marton was wondering for the millionth time why he'd agreed to move in with Nick.

Not that the dorms had been all that great either. At least at the house he had his own room, with a door that locked. And Nick was pretty cool, with a lot of friends, and being invited was sort of flattering.

Of course it was those very friends who were driving him nuts just then, because half a dozen of them had come over with beer and a set of smudged pamphlets and would not stop blathering no matter how late it got. It wouldn't have been so bad if they'd been talking about anything interesting, or useful, or even realistic. But no, it turned out that this particular little group of friends gathered around Nick Cage were fucking _abolitionists_ and that night they were arguing on and on over the best way to "bust out" slaves and give them regular, free lives.

Marton was sprawled across a ratty armchair in the corner by the filthy fireplace with a microbiology text and a couple of hilighters and was _trying_ to get some studying done. He had an exam on Monday and if these assholes kept him from getting a good grade he was going to hunt every one of them down and kick all their asses.

"--new identities so they could live _here,_ so you wouldn't _have_ to smuggle them across the border!" Dave was always insisting that it was cruel to force slaves to leave their homeland. Which was stupid because they'd have to leave their home _area_ anyway so what was the difference?

"Don't be an idiot!" Nick had no patience for idiots, and not much diplomacy when he thought someone was being stupid. Which was pretty often 'cause he was kind of arrogant. "It's not like getting a fake driver's license to buy beer -- they'd need a birth certificate and a social security number and the whole nine yards."

"That's just paperwork," Dave insisted.

"It's _official_ paperwork, with a paper trail and records all over the place. What, are _you_ going to break into a dozen government office buildings with white-out and a pen and change all that stuff?"

"All they need is a couple cards!"

"Until they try to settle somewhere and get a job and their employer does all the paperwork for taxes and stuff and nothing matches and it all falls apart." Nick pitched a pizza crust at Dave, who batted it out of the air so it smacked Mike in the ear.

"Hey, watch it!" He grabbed the crust and pitched it back at Dave. It flew past his head with a good foot to spare and ended up sliding under the couch. "You're both wrong anyway -- everything's switching over to computer. Chasing paper around is stupid, and making a million copies just wastes trees. By the time we're out of school, everything'll be electronic and we can just hack in and make whatever changes we need."

Marton eyerolled from behind his book. They were all crazy. Why would anyone commit a bunch of crimes and take the chance of going to jail -- or being enslaved themselves -- just to free a bunch of slaves who couldn't pay for the service anyway?

Besides, the slaves would need a bunch of re-education to be able to function like free people. Unless they'd just been enslaved recently, that might work. But the ones who'd been at it for years and years, or been born to it? No way. Someone'd spill their coffee and cuss and the slave'd be down on his knees either cleaning it up or apologizing, just out of reflex and that'd be the end of _that._

And once the slaves were caught, you could bet they'd rat out the people who'd helped them, ungrateful shits.

Best thing'd be to get 'em to Baffin to live with the polar bears. South was a bust unless they figured some way to get all the way to Colombia; the isthmus was so narrow, it didn't take much to patrol it, even in all those little countries that technically -- and _only_ technically -- weren't part of the Empire. Getting across the Canal was insane; you'd be better off to just take a boat from Acapulco or Cancun. But oh, wait, then there was the Coast Guard with its orders to fire on anything that didn't have the right "I've Been Inspected Sixteen Times" bing in its transponder.

Going for the borders was fucking dangerous and the whole thing was ridiculous. And even if you were dumb enough to try and lucky enough to make it, you'd still end up spending all the money and taking all the risks with nothing to show for it from the slaves you rescued except a handshake and maybe a goodbye fuck. Sure, great idea.

Marton scrunched down in his chair and tilted his book up so it'd hide more of his face. He did _not_ want to get caught up with these idiots. He liked Nick all right, but sometimes the guy's priorities were really weird, to say nothing of his major blind spot for what was realistic. Marton was going to med school and then spending his life raking in cash, and if anyone asked him, he'd never heard _any_ of this crap.

 

**[Today]**

Orlando drifted up into semi-consciousness, tried to turn and curl up and nearly fell out of bed. The losing-balance, almost-falling, flail-grab feelings, along with the sudden slashes of pain from his neck and back and belly and head, combined to slam him into full consciousness. He jerked upright and cracked his head on the low ceiling.

No, make that the upper bunk.

He curled up again, rubbing various aching parts of himself, and tried to figure out where he was.

The room was pitch black so there wasn't anything to see, but from the way the bonk of his head on the bunk had sounded, he didn't think it was very big. The mattress was thin and there was a stink in the air, of fear-sweat and old vomit.

Orlando hurt in a lot of odd places and wondered whether he'd had an accident. He couldn't remember getting hurt or anything recently, and it'd been ages since he'd actually done anything he wasn't supposed to. Last he remembered was going for groceries; maybe he'd been in a car wreck?

He heard a rustling noise and the bed creaked and shifted. A blinding light flashed into his eyes and he jerked his head back and covered his face with one arm.

"You okay?"

The voice was male, and not one he recognized. Maybe he was in the hospital and had a roommate? But hospitals didn't have bunk beds. And they were never completely black-dark.

Orlando squinted and blinked until he could see. There was a dark-haired guy squatting on the floor next to his bunk, looking like he might be thinking about maybe being concerned someday.

"My head hurts," he said. His voice was weak and croaky and it felt like his throat was stuck together on the inside. "And my neck, and--"

"Right, right." The dark guy waved his hand before Orlando could get very far into his list. "You'll be okay in a few days; you slept through the worst of it."

"Worst of what? What happened? I can't remember what happened or where I am or anything. Where's my master?"

"Well, I've got some good news for you there. You don't _have_ a master anymore. Cool, huh? Enjoy it while it lasts, though, 'cause it'll only be for a few weeks."

"Wait, what?" Orlando jerked up right again and barely managed to keep from bonking his head a second time. "What happened to my master?! Was there an accident? Omigod, is he dead?!"

Horrified thoughts flashed through Orlando's mind -- that his master was dead, maybe they'd been in a car crash and _that_ was why Orlando was banged up but Master Liam hadn't survived. Or maybe his master'd been having money trouble Orlando hadn't known about -- had he been sold to pay debts? What now? Where were his mother and sister? Master Liam's dead!

"Hey, hey, don't black out on me!" The dark guy shook Orlando by the shoulder and jolted him back to the present. The guy stared and then scowled. "I can't believe you're crying over it. What, you _like_ being a slave or something?"

Orlando grabbed back and got a good grip on the guy's forearm. "What _happened?_ Is my master dead? Where's my mother and my sister? And Johnny and--"

This time the guy just clapped a hand over Orlando's mouth. It was more startling than anything and Orlando shut up even as he jerked his face away.

"Jeez, I think that knock on your head bruised your brain! Calm down! As far as I know, your old master's fine, I guess. Don't know about your family -- sorry about that. You might as well forget about them. Slaves don't really have family anyway, you know? You'll be here for a few weeks and then you'll be sold again. New house, new master or mistress, no big deal, right?"

"No! If Master Liam's still alive -- did he sell me? He'd never sell me, not ever!" Orlando pushed the guy out of the way and shoved up to his feet. The door was on the left and he charged across the room and tried to open it. Locked. He pounded on it, and managed to yell, "Hey! Let me out!" before the other guy dragged him back to the bunk again, hand back over his mouth.

"Shit, shut _up!_ You'll get us both in trouble! Mostly me 'cause I'm supposed to keep you in line until you figure stuff out."

"So _help_ me! Explain shit! What the fuck is going on 'cause this is totally insane!" Orlando sank back down onto the bunk with his elbows on his knees and his hands rubbing his face. It was way too real to be a nightmare but nothing made any sense.

"Fine, if you'll shut up and stop blubbering and listen. Basically, you've been stolen, all right? Not kidnapped, 'cause only people get kidnapped and we're not people. We're property and property gets stolen, right?" The guy flopped down onto the bunk and leaned back on his hands, as casual as if they were just any two slaves hanging out.

"So here we are. Your collar's gone and your chip and your brand. If you're hurting, besides where you bashed your skull, it's from the surgery to get the brand off and the chip out. You're free again, sorta, but only for a while so don't let it go to your head.

"As soon as you're healed up and all, the Master here -- and you better call him that even though he doesn't legally own you 'cause if you don't he'll thrash you good -- he'll give you a new name and all and sell you back to Commerce. You'll get re-processed, new chip and brand and all, and soon enough you'll have a new legal master and you can get on with your life. Just hang out here for a while, don't cause any trouble, orient the new kids when you're an old-timer if they tell you to, and everything'll be back to normal before you know it."

Orlando just stared and shook his head. It was hard to process everything the guy'd said because it was so crazy. How could anyone _do_ that? It couldn't possibly _work,_ could it?

"No. No way." He jumped up but didn't try to get out again. That obviously wasn't going to work anyway. Instead he just paced back and forth, his hands fisted and his jaw clenched. "I'm not going to anyone else. I'm going back to _my_ master. His name is Lord Neeson and he's rich and powerful and he'll be looking for me. I just have to get to a phone or a computer or someone to tell and that'll be the end of it."

The other guy just snorted. "What, you're one of those slaves who's all 'attached' to his master? You think you love him? You think that just 'cause he fucks you that means he loves _you?"_

Orlando spun in place and snarled, "He does! He's loved me since I was little and I love him too and he'd do anything to get me back!"

"Great. You're going to get yourself killed trying to get back to some pedophile perv who's 'loved' you since you were a little kid." The guy smirked and gave Orlando a look that was half pity and half contempt.

"It's not like that--!"

"No, no, of course not. It's different with the two of you. It's really 'special' I'm sure." Another snort. "Look, the truth is that you're a fucking _slave,_ okay? You're like a car or a horse and just as replaceable. Fuck, you're, what, my age, right? Late twenties?"

"I'm thirty-one," Orlando muttered.

"Thirty-one?!" The guy hooted with laughter. "And you've been with your master all that time? The same guy? The one who 'loves' little kids, and you think he's going to waste any time hunting for _you?"_

"He will! He's--"

"He's a _master,_ " the guy spat. "And they're all the same, even if they pretend not to be. You're gonna be here for six weeks, maybe two months. There's no way out, no way to get a message out. By the time you're anywhere _near_ a phone, your master'll have forgotten all about you and will have some nice, fresh teenager trained to yell, 'Oh, Master, fuck me _hard!'_ on cue. Or, sorry, your master loves little kids, so it'll probably be a ten-year-old. Whatever."

All of Orlando's fear and confusion boiled up into fury and it had a perfect target. He threw himself at the lying fuck on the bunk and was pounding the crap out of him when the door slammed open and two thugs charged in and whacked him with their batons a few times before jabbing him with a needle.


	8. Chapter 8

**[Eleven Years Ago]**

Liam barely heard the light knock on the door. Whoever it was only rapped twice, and it didn't sound like they were terribly eager to enter. He minimized the windows on his screen and called, "Come in."

The door swung open slowly, just a few inches, then more. Maggie slipped inside and shut the door carefully behind her, then turned and went to her knees with her forehead on the floor.

That was... odd. Not that Maggie was ever disrespectful, within the boundaries he'd given her, but he didn't require his slaves to make a full obeisance whenever they saw him. Either she'd done something wrong and had come to confess, he guessed, or she wanted a considerable favor.

"Yes? What is it, Maggie?"

She didn't look up, but stayed on the floor. "Master, My Lord, I need... I swear I mean no disrespect or impertinence or presumption or... or anything bad. I'd never question you about anything."

"Except for this one time," Liam said wryly. He wondered what the hell she was on about, because all this wasn't like Maggie at all.

"I'm so sorry, My Lord!" Her voice was higher pitched than usual and she was gasping hard, as though trying not to cry. "I just, I beg you, please, don't let Orlando go riding with you tomorrow!"

Liam was silent for a few seconds, just staring down at her. _That_ wasn't at all what he'd expected. He frowned and considered the matter. She _was_ being presumptuous, and impertinent, and disrespectful. But she was worried about Orlando, and he supposed that was understandable.

Sometimes he almost forgot Maggie was Orlando's mother. They didn't spend much time together, really, at least so far as Liam knew, and Orlando hardly ever mentioned her.

But then, he'd hardly been much closer to his own mother when he was that age. Mothers tended to cling to their sons, though, so Maggie's near-hysteria was probably natural. Annoying, but perhaps not something she could help.

"He'll be fine, Maggie," was what Liam finally said. "The doctors are happy with his progress. It's been fourteen months. He's healed well, the hardware hasn't budged and he's been good about his exercises. Riding won't be a problem."

"But Master, what if he gets hurt again? Like before? Or thrown? He could be crippled, or killed!" Maggie still hadn't looked up, but she'd definitely raised her voice.

Liam scowled and said, "That was always true," and his own voice was noticeably harsher than before. He was willing to make allowances but only up to a point and Maggie was about to cross it. "He's a young man and packing him in bubble wrap won't do him any favors. He'll be fine, or maybe he won't, but if he does have an accident it won't be any worse than it might've been before he broke his back. You may go, Maggie."

Maggie's shoulders shook and when she climbed awkwardly to her feet, he could see that she was sobbing and working on not making any noise. He watched, holding back his annoyance, while she bowed and left.

That's what happens when you're too easy on the slaves, he thought. Grandfather would've thrashed her, and kept her gagged for twenty-four hours as a lesson to keep her mouth shut.

Probably not the best idea -- wouldn't want her fainting into the frying pan or something from dehydration -- but over-familiarity was never a good idea either. He resolved to be sterner in the future, and turned back to his computer.

 

**[Today]**

Orlando woke up in a strange bed in a room by himself. It was small and plain but reasonably clean. Dim light came in through a narrow, high window, like it was early evening or maybe early morning. He could see some kind of mesh over the window on the inside, and the fatter darkness of bars on the outside.

Sitting up took some concentration but he managed. He rubbed his head and felt a swollen spot on his forehead. It didn't hurt, though -- it actually felt kind of numb. Matter of fact, he felt kind of numb all over, like when he'd been in the hospital after breaking his back; he'd woken up after surgery and they had him full of drugs and he hadn't felt much of anything, sort of fluffy and swooping and detached.

If the soft spot on his forehead meant he'd been hurt, maybe someone had given him some pain meds. That was nice of them. His master had never been stingy about medicine or doctors when his slaves were sick or hurt, though, so it wasn't really surprising.

What'd happened, though? He couldn't remember. And why was he in a strange place instead of in his own bed? If he was hurt enough that he couldn't be home, then he should be in a hospital, but he wasn't, so...?

He pushed up onto his feet and swayed a little before finding his balance. The door was only a few steps away, which was just as well. He opened it and poked his head out into an empty hallway, with a few other doors on both sides.

While his feet went exploring, trying to find someone who could tell him where he was and what was going on, most of his brain was trying to remember what'd happened and how he'd gotten there. It felt like he was on some fairly major drugs, but if he'd been hurt that bad then he should remember it, right?

Or maybe not. Didn't people forget about accidents sometimes? A kind of short-term amnesia or something?

There had to be _someone_ around who could explain it all, though. Maybe Master Liam was there, just waiting for him to wake up before taking him home?

The hall made a right turn and led to a larger room with a couch and a television, and a long table and chairs near a kitchenette.

There was a husky, blond older guy sitting at the table, reading a magazine. He looked up when Orlando took a few steps into the room.

"Morning, Grant. You're kinda early for breakfast."

Orlando blinked, then looked around. He was the only other person in the room. "Umm, I'm sorry, but I... this is confusing." He took a few more steps into the room, pushing a hand through his hair. It felt like it hadn't been washed or even brushed in a few days. "I can't remember what happened. Was I in an accident? Or something? Where's my master?"

The man at the table scowled at him and closed his magazine. "Aren't you kinda jumping the gun there? It's great that you're getting into it and all, after the fuss you made when we brought you in, but you haven't been processed yet."

"Wait, what?" Orlando sank down into a chair opposite the guy and rubbed his hands over his face. "Look, I think I must've hit my head or something, I've got this bruise and I can't remember what happened."

"Hey, your own fault," the man said. "If you'd just come quietly, you wouldn't have gotten clonked in the scuffle. Hell, if you weren't so lousy at blackjack--"

"That's enough, Brendan," said another man. He came striding in from a doorway on the other side of the kitchenette. "Mr. Grant is here now and there's no reason to go rehashing what's over and done. How about if you get breakfast?"

Brendan muttered and nodded and got up to go poke around in the kitchen area. The other man came over to Orlando and asked, "How are you feeling this morning?"

"Ahh, really confused." He tried to smile but it didn't work very well. "I don't know who Mr. Grant is, but my name's Orlando Bloom and I need to talk to my master. Is he here somewhere? Or could I call him?"

The second man stared at him hard, then stepped up next to him and laid a hand across his forehead. "Some swelling, but not that bad." He tilted Orlando's head up and stared into his eyes, one after the other. "If you have a concussion it's only minor. There's no reason for amnesia, much less a full-on fugue. Therefore, the only possible conclusion is that you've come up with some sort of scheme to try to get out of the consequences of your actions. It's not going to work, so you might as well drop it. Just relax and wait for breakfast."

"No, wait!" Orlando reached out and grabbed the man's shirtsleeve, then jerked his hand back again. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean-- I mean, I don't know what's going on. I just want my master!" Everything was crazy, confusing, like he was dreaming. He needed to find Master Liam, he'd fix whatever was wrong. Or maybe if Orlando just went back to sleep, everything would be fine when he woke up?

The man sighed and sat down in the chair next to Orlando's. "All right, on the possibility that the knock on the head you took might've brought out some odd side effect in the pain meds you were given, I'll humor you one time. I'm Mr. Csokas. I own the Silver Ingot casino in Las Vegas, among other businesses. You are David Grant, a regular patron of my establishment. Over the last several years, you've run up a considerable debt with me. You made just enough payments, and managed to spin sufficiently plausible stories, that I made the mistake of continuing to extend you credit. Seven months ago I decided that enough was enough, and gave you a deadline for repayment. It passed.

"I'm accustomed to people who owe me money trying to drop underground before Commerce can collect them; I came all the way to California to get you so I could take you in myself, with the appropriate paperwork, and get things moving. You resisted collection and I'm afraid my associates were a bit rougher than I'd like. One of them was wearing a ring which caused some laceration damage, and for that I apologize. I had a doctor come in and patch you up; I don't recommend you scratch or pick at any of the wound sites, or we'll just have to do it again.

"This afternoon, you'll be going to Commerce to be processed in as a slave, so I can get my money back. I'm truly sorry it had to come to this, Mr. Grant, but you're the one who lied on your credit application and said you were a software engineer -- nice trick having your friend ready to answer the phone and confirm your so-called employment. People who hold low-level retail jobs should really stay away from the casinos, and being forced to commit fraud in order to continue gambling should be taken as a rather large hint that the whole thing's a bad idea.

"At any rate, if you'll cooperate from now on, we'll get along just fine and avoid any unnecessary unpleasantness."

When he finished, Orlando just stared at him. It was all insane, of course, and Orlando was trying to figure out what the purpose of... of _whatever_ was going on could be, because it didn't seem like a joke. Why would a couple of guys he didn't know at all go to all this trouble to play such a dumb joke on him anyway?

He took a deep breath and let it out slowly, then said, "I'm very sorry, Sir, but that's impossible. Or maybe you picked up the wrong person? I don't know any David Grant, and I've never seen you before and I've never gambled. I'm a body-slave to Lord Neeson and as soon as we get to Commerce they'll scan my chip and send me back where I belong. I don't know how I got here, but--"

"All right, that's enough," Mr. Csokas said, cutting Orlando off with an angry slash of one hand. "You're not a slave yet but you're going to be one soon enough. If you're willing to behave yourself until we get to the Commerce office, though, you're welcome to your delusions. For now just sit in that chair and don't move. We'll go after breakfast."

Fine, Orlando thought. This'll all be straightened out then, and you can go find your Grant guy. Damn, I want to go _home!_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I was working on this novel and suddenly a novelette jumped out from behind a rock and ambushed me. :/
> 
> Seriously, I was writing a "Nine Years Ago" scene for Chapter Eight, and it got longer and longer and longer.... I ended up pulling it out, finishing it as its own story, sorta, and posting it separately. It really doesn't fit within the story flow of _A Lost Boy,_ but what happens during "Turf Battles" does have an impact on the novel. You can understand the novel okay without the novelette, if you're all right with some family members suddenly popping up. But TB shows a definitive time in Liam's life and his relationship with Orlando. Click to read [Turf Battles](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1078520) if you like; there'll be a return link at the end.


	9. Chapter 9

**[Eight Years Ago]**

Master Liam reached down a hand toward Orlando, who was sitting cross-legged on the floor next to him. The hand was empty, so he wanted something. Orlando'd been paying attention to the dinner meeting going on around the table, so he knew his master wanted the dossier on Mr. Taylor, the man the opposition was pushing for Chairman of the Board of SilicaSystems. Orlando slid it out of the perfectly organized briefcase, which was perched on his lap, and put it into his master's hand. The meeting flowed on, punctuated by the clink of silverware on china and the occasional dull tap of fine crystal on the tablecloth when someone put down a glass.

The next time his master's hand reached down, it had a fork in it with a chunk of rare steak. Orlando leaned forward and took the bite of meat, chewing while he sorted through the pages of SilicaSystems' corporate charter, looking for a clause he remembered from one of their prep sessions.

They'd spent days holed up in Master's office at home, Master and Orlando, with Johnny, who'd been travelling all week making personal contact with allies and fence-sitters, often contributing over the phone or through e-mail. They'd collected and sorted information and sounded out other board members and shareholders, trying to build a block of votes before flying out to Triangle Park for the stockholders' meeting. The vote was the next morning, and Master Liam and other major shareholders who favored Mr. MacAllister as the new Chairman were having one last work session before the morning meeting

Orlando touched his master's thigh and held up the correct charter page with his thumb pointing at the relevant clause. Master Liam took it from him, stared at it for a few moments, then ruffled Orlando's hair in approval and dove back into the swirl of strategizing.

All of which was pretty well representative of Orlando's life for the previous five years. It was exhausting at times, but he could count the days each year when he was away from his master on the fingers of one hand, and usually with fingers left over; that made all the paperwork and travel and late nights -- including too many of the _other_ kind of late nights, where they were just working and there was hardly time for Orlando to give his master a blowjob to help him sleep before dropping off in exhaustion himself -- worth it. It was much better than being left at home like a little kid.

While sitting on the floor (carpeted, thick, good padding -- body-slaves quickly became experts on carpets and flooring) waiting for his next cue that Master needed something, he caught a smug look from Mr. Clooney's body-slave. He raised an eyebrow at the pampered twit and stared him down.

Matt was a body-slave and _only_ a body-slave. He knelt on the floor next to his master's chair, half curled up in his lap, getting pets from his master and treats from the table and contributing nothing at all to the meeting except his reasonably cute presence. Mr. Clooney had a personal assistant, a free woman named Ms. Margulies who sat at the table with the other free people and actually did work. Matt seemed to think doing nothing but sit on the floor and look cute was some kind of privilege, but Orlando knew better. In the four years since he'd first met Mr. Clooney, at another business meeting similar to this one, the man had gone through three other body-slaves before Matt. Ms. Margulies had been with him the entire time, and from what Orlando'd picked up listening to random remarks, she'd been with him for around twenty years.

Mr. Clooney and Ms. Margulies might or might not've been fucking, but obviously doing nothing for Mr. Clooney _but_ get fucked by him wasn't the way to hold his attention. Matt would learn. If he had any luck, when Mr. Clooney got around to selling him next month or next year, he'd find a master half as good as Orlando's.

Mr. Sinclair -- no, _Lord_ Sinclair now, and Orlando had better remember it -- still owned Karl, and had him keeping notes and tallies on a white board on one wall. The restaurant was accustomed to having business meetings among the private gatherings in its back rooms and was willing to provide (for a fee, which Orlando had negotiated) all sorts of meeting-type amenities.

Lord Sinclair had been kind enough to ask after Orlando's health when they'd first arrived. He always did, the few times a year he and Master Liam got together for business or occasionally pleasure. Orlando had the impression that Lord Sinclair felt bad about his gutter collapsing.

Not that he cared about Orlando personally; he'd probably have felt just as bad if a piece of his house had fallen and injured one of Master Liam's horses. Lord Sinclair was ambitious and finally gaining that title he'd wanted hadn't slown him down. Lord Neeson was a valuable friend to have; being at least partially responsible for his body-slave breaking his back would probably make _anyone_ a little tense and eager to curry a bit of extra favor.

Orlando handed up the packet of recent financials for three other companies Mr. MacAllister was involved with. Two had been doing well and the third had been a trainwreck long before he'd joined the organization, but there were fewer wrecked cars now than there'd been before he'd taken over; he was obviously a competent manager. Or maybe he just knew how to hire competent help -- either one was valuable.

Master Liam took the packet and handed down a chunk of roasted potato. Orlando bit it neatly off his master's fork and focused back on his work.

 

**[Today]**

"I'm sorry, My Lord, I haven't found any more of Orlando's effects. There was never much hope for the clothing, honestly."

"What do you have for me, then?" Lord Neeson's question was a sharp snap, and carried the clear assumption that there _would_ be progress of some sort to relate. Thewlis was very happy to have something because this was not a man he cared to disappoint.

He might have to eventually and that wasn't a happy thought. There were still a couple of possibilities, but he was beginning to think that the slave was probably dead, or near enough. Until he had proof of that, however, his current employer was paying a ridiculous amount to guarantee Thewlis's exclusive attention, and he was more than willing to cash the checks and pound the pavement.

"I found both people who took the keyring and the collar to the pawn shops. Both items were found in dumpsters, one behind a small grocery and the other in an industrial park. I questioned both parties and am satisfied that they did indeed simply find the items. The young lady who found the keyring is homeless and was going through the grocery's dumpster looking for discarded produce and such. The gentleman who was searching the industrial park dumpster is a metal artist -- he welds bits together into sculptures and finds people to buy them. Neither came across as either too jittery or too smooth."

Lord Neeson scowled and nodded. "What else?"

"I've been talking to some people, trying to find leads on other slaves who've vanished. I have contacts in a few police departments and I've asked around among people I know who work for those such as yourself who own large numbers of slaves. There's a reluctance to stick to the topic, however."

"So will they talk to you or not?"

"On this subject, mostly not. Information on the disposition of slaves must go strictly through Commerce, and Commerce will assure anyone who asks that there are never any successful escapes, that all runaway slaves are tracked down eventually and set to less desirable but more secure tasks."

"Orlando is _not_ a runaway." Lord Neeson glared at him and his voice was hard enough to cut diamond. Oddly enough, Thewlis believed him.

Normally that would've been his first assumption, particularly with a master this harsh. In fact, he _had_ assumed it when he'd begun investigating. He'd been given a free hand to speak with any of the slaves or free employees about the estate, however, and _not_ with either Neeson or an agent lurking over his shoulder, and everyone he'd talked with had agreed that Orlando had adored his master and would have only left kicking and screaming. Happy as a cockroach with a restaurant dumpster all to itself, was how one of the house slaves had put it. Not terribly flattering, but definitely descriptive.

So assuming all these people who'd known the boy his entire life were correct, then he hadn't run away.

"So you've said, My Lord," he replied, bowing his head respectfully. "But Commerce has no category for 'stolen' slaves. There are only slaves in Commerce, slaves contracted out, slaves who've died in service, and the occasional runaway who is _always_ brought back, although not always alive, and if so is rarely living for long after. That's the party line."

"Obviously bullshit," said Neeson with a scowl. "Orlando can't have been the first slave in modern history to have ever been stolen."

"Clearly not," Thewlis agreed. "But consider, they have a vested interest in making sure everyone knows, for a fact, that runaways are always found and punished. There's no way to tell the difference between a successful runaway and a theft, therefore thefts don't exist any more than successful runaways do."

"At least not officially." Neeson looked both angry and thoughtful, with his jaw tight and his fingers tapping on his desk. "And I doubt they'd say anything different even if I asked myself."

"Unfortunately not, My Lord. But you could perhaps speak with some of the other owners of your acquaintance? People who might be willing to discuss the subject with one of their own?"

Neeson looked thoughtful and frowned. "What exactly would I be asking them? What are we looking for, aside for the bare fact of another missing slave or two? Who might well have run away?"

"First of all, we're looking for signs indicating that they might _not_ have run away. Your Orlando was apparently more content with his lot than most slaves, but there might well have been others who were not discontent enough to take the chance of being caught as runaways. As I said during our previous meeting, more thefts mean more evidence, which will make it that much more likely that we can track down the thieves."

"Fine. I'll ask around, then, and if I find any other signs of theft, I'll persuade the owners to talk to you, since you know what questions to ask."

"That would be excellent, if you could arrange it." Thewlis bowed his head again and thought about how best to make use of such a series of meetings. One-on-one might get the owners to speak more freely, but if they could manage a group meeting with a number of people who'd had slaves stolen, listening to the others speaking could trigger memories and produce more information.

"What are the chances that this was aimed specifically at me?"

"My lord?" Thewlis changed mental gears and wondered what Lord Neeson was thinking. He was obvious more upset than he cared to let on, but might someone have counted on... on what? The fact that stealing his body-slave might throw him off his game? That seemed rather a long shot.

"Orlando was privy to all of my business dealings, and has been for a dozen years."

Ahh, now _that_ was an interesting possibility. "Is that commonly known?"

"Yes. He attends meetings with me and acts as my secretary. Johnny is competent to work alone and travels as my representative a good deal; Orlando is the one who's constantly by me and anyone who's done business with me would know it."

"Or anyone they've mentioned it to," Thewlis agreed with a nod. "So this might've been an act of business espionage, if a rival thinks they can get enough information out of the boy to make the risk worthwhile."

Neeson looked pained. "He wouldn't willingly betray me."

"Of course not, My Lord," Thewlis said, trying hard to sound reassuring. "But there are drugs which would do the job no matter how loyal your boy is."

"Drugs? Of course." Neeson looked relieved for a moment, and Thewlis could only imagine what he'd been thinking. The more physical forms of persuasion made for dramatic scenes in movies, but they were time-consuming and the information they produced was unreliable. Victims tended to tell torturers whatever they wanted to hear, rather than what was true.

If that was what Neeson had been thinking, however, then it was no wonder his appearance had suffered. His face was more lined than Thewlis remembered from their first meeting, there were dark smudges under his eyes, and there might have been a bit more silver in his hair. It was possible that if Orlando had adored his master, his master might well have adored him back. And a rival who'd noticed could have spotted a two-for-one deal on stealing the boy -- both whatever secrets and strategies they could get out of him, _and_ whatever benefit they gained from distracting Neeson away from his business affairs.

Not that Thewlis would ever suggest such a thing aloud.


	10. Chapter 10

**[Seven Years Ago]**

"Oh, man, I am completely wasted!" Mark Vincent was sprawled in a velvet-upholstered loveseat, upstairs in a private lounge at his flagship club, xXx. He had a golden touch for that sort of entertainment business and by his late twenties he'd made enough money to start looking around for investments. He and Liam had been introduced at a weekend party, and had partnered on some profitable ventures over the years, and eventually become good friends despite their sharply contrasting backgrounds.

Vincent had a loud, raucous personality, but there was a sharp brain in his shaved head and he was a good man to have on one's side in just about any conflict.

There were no conflicts that evening, however. They'd had an excellent dinner with plenty of alcohol and everyone was having a good time relaxing. The music from the main area of the club downstairs was audible but not deafening, and half a dozen dancers -- slaves owned by Vincent's company -- had come up to entertain.

Dinner'd been cleared away a little while ago and the dancing had turned erotic. Vincent would usually have been jumping in to participate, but that night he seemed to have enjoyed a little too much of the vodka -- to say nothing of the wine with dinner and the martinis before -- and was reduced to just watching.

It was a shame; Vincent might not be much to look at above the neck, but he had an impressive body and Liam didn't mind watching him with the slaves every now and then.

Vincent leaned over and whispered something to his own body-slave, Paul, who grinned and walked across to where Liam was sitting, with Orlando at his feet to one side. Paul sank to his knees and pressed his forehead to Liam's boot for a moment, then knelt up and said, "My master has sent me to ask whether Orlando can come and play."

Liam glanced down at Orlando, who was looking up with a "Please-please?" smile on his face. He and Paul got along well and had played together before, and Liam enjoyed watching them. He nodded and tipped Orlando's face up for a long kiss. "Make me hard for you," he murmured.

"Yes, Master!" Orlando gave him a teasing wink, then leaned over and kissed Paul, pushing his hands into the other slave's hair. Paul was as blond as Orlando was dark, and they made a lovely contrast. Paul was ruggedly handsome and more muscular; Orlando was gracefully pretty and more flexible. Together they were beautifully erotic.

The boys shifted over to an open spot in the floor about halfway between their masters, a few feet away from the writhing mass four of the dancers had become. One of the others was lapping delicately under the skirt of a woman associate of Vincent's who wasn't quite successful enough yet to afford a body-slave of her own, and the sixth had just finished sucking off some musician whose name Liam could never remember, while the man's body-slave rimmed him. The newly unoccupied slave gave Liam a suggestive look, but he wasn't interested in anyone else just then and he waved the boy off.

Paul, who was wearing a pair of tight, ragged jeans and nothing else, tugged Orlando's black mesh shirt off over his head and tossed it aside, then ducked down to suck on one dark nipple while his hands worked at the fly of Orlando's leather pants. It took some time and effort to peel him out of them, despite the smooth silk lining, or maybe the boys were just making a good show of it; it was just as likely with either of them. By the time the pants were discarded with the shirt, both slaves were erect and breathing hard.

Liam leaned back in his seat and adjusted his thickening cock in his trousers. He wasn't one for public sex, at least not among people he didn't know, but he could think of any number of things he was going to do to Orlando once they got back to the hotel.

 

**[Today]**

Marton texted a message ahead to the office to let them know it was nearly show time. He'd watched Ben's abortive session with the new slave, Orlando, and it'd been clear that the usual method wasn't going to work. It was a pity; it required fewer hands held out for payment if the target could be philosophical about the situation and just go along. Around half of them, like Ben, were just as happy to get away from their old masters or mistresses and eager to cooperate, preferring a fresh spin on the wheel to whatever Fate had delivered them to before.

Some owners, though, were good at manipulating their slaves' emotions and fostered a strong dependency. Marton could appreciate the skill involved while still feeling annoyed at having to go to Plan B.

And speaking of "B," maybe it was time to replace Ben. He'd done his job well enough for the first few months -- a great little manipulator himself, that one. Lately, though, it seemed his bitterness was getting the better of him. He hadn't made more than a token effort to convince Orlando to accept his fate. Mocking and jeering might have tipped the balance on a slave who was wavering, but any idiot should've been able to predict that someone as strongly attached to his master as this one was would only get angry.

Marton wasn't sorry at all for the bruised cheek and swollen lip Ben had taken before the men had gotten Orlando off him; the little idiot deserved it for indulging himself.

Orlando was the third target in a row Ben had failed to turn on to the benefits of cooperation. If there were a fourth, Ben would be spinning the wheel himself soon.

They pulled into the parking lot and stopped near the rear door of a non-descript commercial building which Anderson, one of Marton's other employees, had leased under an alias created for the purpose. Orlando was cuffed and chained to a bracket on the floor in the back, and wouldn't be able to see that there was no sign on the front of the building, certainly nothing claiming it was the Commerce Processing Center for Bakersfield; the overt deception was all on the inside.

Brendan got out and went around back to fetch the slave. Marton headed to the door with a folder full of documents. They were all falsified, of course, but they were excellent forgeries and would go with Orlando -- or rather, David -- to the real Commerce office when the time came.

Marton pulled the door open and headed in, with Brendan and a stubbornly glaring "David" following close behind. Anderson was seated at a plain, steel-framed desk with a plain sign behind him; an ordinary back-entrance of a government office, good enough to bring the slaves through. Buyers would go around the front where the actual decor was, or would have been if this'd been a real Commerce office.

He marched up to the desk and said, "Debtor to process in." He handed over the loan papers one at a time, and Anderson made a show of examining them. "Since this morning, he's been trying to convince me I have the wrong man. Says he's already a slave."   
"That's a new one," Anderson drawled.

"It's the truth," Orlando snapped, as though he'd been cued. Which he had, in a way.

"Sure it is," said Anderson. He hadn't even looked at the slave yet; he was on the computer, tapping away at something. "ID?"

Marton pulled a California driver's license out of the folder. Orlando's eyes went wide and he jerked forward out of Brendan's grip to snatch it up and stare at it. Brendan grabbed his upper arms, but Marton held up a hand and said, "Wait." He let Orlando look.

It was an excellent fake, and the bleary-looking photo they'd taken while he was drugged out of his mind on rohypnol didn't even look too much worse than the "real" DMV photos. Heck, Marton had seen plenty worse on bona fide ID cards.

David Timothy Grant, SEX: M, HAIR: BRN, EYES: BRN, HT: 5-11, WT-165, DOB: 04-19-81.

"This isn't me. I mean, I'm not David Grant, and I'm thirty-one -- even the year is wrong."

Anderson snagged the card and looked it over, then looked at Orlando, then looked back at the card. "Sorry, bud, the picture's not _that_ bad."

"It's not me! It's _not!"_

Marton sighed heavily. "Could you just scan him and show him he's not chipped? Then I can get my voucher and get out of here and he'll be your problem."

"Sure, sure, if it'll shut him up. Hang on, we don't keep them out here." Anderson stood up and headed through the steel door opposite the entrance.

"You'll see," Orlando said. He was starting to sound a little panicked -- the driver's license had shaken him -- and Marton had to work hard not to smirk. "I understand why you thought I was this Grant guy, though, he looks a lot like me. He's younger, though, and kind of spacey looking."

"Everyone looks spacey on their driver's license," Marton said. "You should see mine."

Anderson came back with the scanner and ran it over the slave's back, taking ostentatious care to hit every bit of him from shoulder to shoulder and neck to waist, since the chip could end up anywhere in the area depending on who did the chipping and which office they worked out of. It stayed silent.

"It's right under my shoulderblade," Orlando insisted. "On the left side. Do it again!" He yanked his T-shirt off, as if that'd make a difference.

Anderson scanned the area, pressing it against Orlando's skin so the guy would know exactly where it was hitting. "Nothing."

Orlando spun around and yanked the scanner over so he could look at it. It was on, the green light was lit, and the read-out said "READY."

"Look, bud," said Anderson, "you're not chipped, you're not branded, you're not in the system. You're not a slave. I'm glad it bothers you that much, though, 'cause we're going to fix it for you right now."

"No!" Orlando ducked away and flattened himself against the wall, staring wide-eyed at the three of them, then he fixed his gaze on the door to the parking lot, as though trying to figure out whether making a break for it would do any good.

Since both Marton and Brendan were between him and the outside it obviously wouldn't, but Marton wasn't sure the guy was in any shape to make a rational decision. He nudged Brendan and cocked his head toward Orlando. Brendan nodded and stepped forward, his arms spread wide just in case. Sure enough, the guy tried to bolt around him. Brendan caught him easily and twisted an arm up behind his back, pressing till he yelped.

Anderson came up and wrapped a cheap steel-chain collar around his neck and locked it with a solid click. Brendan turned him around and slammed him into the wall, then grabbed his other arm so Anderson could handcuff him.

"Let me take him back to a holding cell and then I'll come get you your voucher," Anderson said over his shoulder to Marton.

"No rush," said Marton. "I'm just glad to be rid of him. I need to get back to my business, make sure the staff hasn't burned the place down." He watched Anderson muscle Orlando through the door, then counted to twenty. That was more than time enough for him to have gotten his new guest out of sight. Marton flipped the lock on the door to the parking lot so no one could wander in by mistake and maybe wonder at the sign behind the desk, then headed inside to the small office area.

The place was stark but adequate. It had three computer monitors, all of which were switchable to the CCTV system. They rarely needed all three, since they'd only once had more than two subjects at a time being processed under Plan B. Right then Orlando/David was the only one, and Marton preferred it that way. It was hard enough convincing the slaves they were crazy, or at least that the rest of the world had gone crazy, without taking the chance that two of them might be able to compare notes.

Brendan sat down and pulled out an iPod and a pair of earbuds; he was mainly muscle and his job was done for the day. Marton sat in front of the third monitor, the one generally dedicated to the internal cameras, turned up the volume so he could listen, and watched from the camera's perspective up by the ceiling inside the holding cell, where Anderson had shoved Orlando -- no, _David_ \-- onto the floor.

"--good try but it's over and the sooner you straighten up the easier it'll be for you."

"I'm _not_ David Grant! You have to believe me! Please, just call my master!"

Anderson backhanded him across the face with his fist. "Slaves who get a reputation for lying tend to get beaten a lot," he said. "You should remember that."

"I'm not lying!"

Anderson reached down for the snap on David's jeans and David kicked at him.

"Don't! Leave me alone! Call my master!"

Anderson scowled and went over to a cupboard set high on the wall. He grabbed another set of cuffs, knelt down next to David and lay across his legs while he locked the cuffs around his ankles. "If you try kicking me again, I'll get another lock and attach your ankles to your wrists. A back hogtie is usually a punishment, but I'm willing to put you into one just for my convenience if you insist on being a hysterical little shit."

Another trip to the cupboard. He took out a utility knife and went to stand over David. "If you struggle I'm going to cut you," he said. "I don't care one way or the other. You're obviously going to need a lot of training and there'll be plenty of time for a few minor cuts from a very sharp knife to heal up before any buyers get to look at you. Or a lot of minor cuts, same difference."

He bent over and cut off David's jeans and underwear, then pulled off his shoes and socks. The slave glared at him but stayed still until he was naked.

Anderson stuffed the clothes into a slot in the wall and then put the knife away. "Who are you?" he asked.

"I'm Orlando Bloom, and I belong to Lord Neeson and when he finds me he's going to _smash_ you!"

Still listening, Marton cocked his head and wondered at the tone of voice. It'd sounded more like a little boy than a grown man. This might work more quickly than he'd expected.

Anderson turned back to the cupboard and came out with a riding crop. He shoved David over on his stomach and worked over his shoulders and ass and thighs with the crop until they were masses of red lines and David was howling in pain and anger.

"Who are you?"

"My name is Orlando!"

Anderson muscled him over onto his front, planted a foot on his pelvis so he couldn't move (and also to protect the healing patch where the tattoo had been) and thrashed him again, chest and belly and legs.

David was sobbing hard but still wouldn't relent. That was fine; if he had, Marton would have known he was lying. The last thing he wanted was for David to turn sly and decide to bide his time. That could be disastrous, especially if he was telling the truth about his master wanting him back. Time would let David settle into his new life, and let his old master get over whatever annoyance he felt at having to replace his bed-warmer. Time would also let the patches heal enough that a real Commerce slave handler wouldn't notice anything odd.

They had time, and time would solve all their problems.

David was still sobbing his old name and crying for his master when Marton turned and left. Anderson was good at this, and Marton had work to do back at main office.


	11. Chapter 11

**[Five Years Ago]**

"Up!" little Jamie demanded in an imperious voice. He held his chubby arms in the air. "Up-up!"

Orlando grinned and said, "Yes, Master Jamie. Climb up on the fence so I can reach you."

Master Jamie Neeson, at age three, was just as much of a brave little monkey as Orlando'd ever been. He scrambled up and climbed the fence slats like a ladder, then leaned against the top rail while standing on the second and held his arms up again.

"Up!"

Orlando leaned over and pulled him up onto Sassy Lady's back, perched on her withers in front of Orlando's saddle. With one arm wrapped around Jamie's chest, Orlando clucked Lady into a slow walk around the pasture.

"Gimme!"

"Say, 'Give me the reins, please,'" Orlando chided.

"Gimme!" Master Jamie was starting to sound suspiciously tantrumish.

"Not until you ask properly. Your daddy is never rude, not even to slaves." Well, not _quite_ true, but usually.

"Gimme reins please!"

"Close enough." Orlando grinned and let Jamie hold the reins. His hands were too small and weak for him to do much with them, but he waved them around anyway and yelled, "Giddyap!"

Orlando circled his thumb and forefinger around the reins, beyond where Jamie was gripping; he wasn't _holding_ them, but making the reins pass through the small circles of his hands damped down the wild flailing. As it was, Lady looked over her shoulder, trying to see what the heck was going on.

"Look, there's your daddy!" Orlando pointed over to the other side of the pasture, facing the stable, where Master Liam was leaning on the fence watching them. Jamie leaned way over to see and would've fallen off if Orlando hadn't had a hold on him.

"Daddy!" Jamie waved wildly. "Daddy, watch me!"

Orlando laughed. "He can't hear you from here, kiddo. Want to go over and see him?"

"Yes!"

"Okay. Want to go fast?"

"YES!"

"Okay, hang on!" Orlando grinned, and he was the one hanging on tight. He'd taken the reins back while Jamie was waving at Master Liam, and he turned Lady around, then tapped her into a gallop. They flew across the grass, Jamie shrieking with laughter.   
They were across in less than a minute, and Orlando reined Lady back down to a walk. Jamie was yelling, "More faster!" but Orlando just petted his hair and said, "Later, kiddo. There's your daddy, wave!"

Jamie waved madly and Master Liam waved back. "Did you have fun?" he asked Jamie.

"Yes! I want to go again!"

"In a few minutes," Liam said. He looked up at Orlando and added, "It'd be best if you never let the mistress see you doing that with him up there. At least not for a few more years."

"No, Master." Orlando nodded and gave as much of a bow as he could manage while on horseback and holding on to a three-year-old. Mostly it was a slow head nod.

"In fact, it'd probably be best if she never sees him on a full-size horse period until he's around ten or so."

"Yes, Master. I'll pay particular attention to when she's visiting."

"You do that." Master Liam gave him a quick half smile. "She wasn't overly happy about Tabby, but she's resigned to it. And Paula stays with Tabby; for the few times a year she's here, he'll do for now."

"Yes, Master." Tabby was the pony Liam had gotten for his children, shortly after their first birthday. Bramble, the pony he'd gotten for Orlando and Samantha all those years ago, was happily retired, munching grass in the side pasture by the house and looking picturesque. He was too old to start up again on another generation of children, though, so Tabby was the working pony. Layna, one of the gardeners had a pair of young daughters, and Maddy, a housemaid, had a son just a year older than Jamie and Paula, so Tabby was never lonely, even when Jamie could persuade someone to take him up on a horse.

Dividing the twins hadn't been an optimal solution for anyone, but when the Master and Mistress had separated, they'd decided that each taking a twin and visiting whenever they could would be better for the children than shuttling them back and forth. They'd both lived with their mother until they were three, and then Jamie'd come to live with his father, just a few months ago.

Orlando had some doubts about how Paula was going to turn out, considering how badly Mistress Natasha spoiled all her body-slaves -- not only Chad but also the three since him -- but no one had asked him for his opinion so he'd kept it to himself. Jamie was a bit full of himself, but his father kept a rein on him and allowed all the staff, including the slaves, to insist on politeness from the boy. He was getting the message, slowly.

 

**[Today]**

"Vincent, talk to me."

"Mark, this is Liam. How've you been?"

"Not bad. Business is good. How about you?"

"I have something to ask you, and it might be a bit sensitive."

"What d'you want to know? You've already watched me fuck a dozen times -- what's more sensitive than that?"

Liam would've laughed if the situation had been different. "This is actually about Paul."

There was silence on the other end of the line, then, "He's gone. What's there to say?"

"Mark, I need to know, did you sell him? You never said and I didn't want to ask. We all just assumed at the time, but I'll admit I was surprised."

"Hell no, I didn't sell him." Vincent paused again and Liam heard him muttering to himself, then a muffled "Fuck it." Aloud, Vincent said, "He just vanished one day. He'd gone out to pick up the fucking dry cleaning and never came back. The cops decided he'd run away, hunted around for him for a while then gave up, turned it over to Commerce. Commerce said I'd got the insurance and could use it to get another body-slave, that Paul was their problem now and when they found him they'd take care of him. He's probably in a fucking medical lab or something right now, or dead."

"Or maybe not," said Liam. "Look, Orlando vanished too, last week. He was getting groceries."

"Orlando? Fuck! That boy'd never run away from you! Someone'd have to cosh him on the head and toss him over their shoulder."

"That's essentially what happened. We have a witness who saw someone get out of a van next to where he'd parked at the grocery store. Then the van drove off and he was gone. She couldn't see clearly, but it was obvious someone took him."

"So, what? He was pinched? Fuck, you think someone got Paul too?"

"It could be. Probably not the same group, on opposite coasts, unless they're a lot bigger than I've been imagining. Damn, I hope not -- if they really do operate on both coasts, then Orlando could be anywhere."

"So what are you doing to get him back? Anything I could use? It's been a couple years since I lost Paul, but if there's a chance he's still around.... Hell, I can think of three or four possibilities and I don't much like any of 'em, but if he's still _there_ then I want to find him, get him out and break some heads."

"I hired an investigator who's been looking around, but most owners won't talk to people like him about missing slaves. Did Commerce tell you to keep quiet about it?"

"Yeah, they did. Said it didn't do anyone any good to let it get out that slaves ran away sometimes. Give the others ideas and all, end up with more sent to toxic clean-up and whatever all else."

"Right. And meanwhile these thieves, however many of them there are, are using that, counting on the fact that no one talks about vanished slaves, and the assumption that they've all run away. No one's looking for thieves, or hasn't until now. Who knows how long they've been at it?"

"So what are you doing?"

"Right now, just calling around, trying to find more cases of theft rather than flight. My investigator wants to get everyone together if we can, pool information, see what we can come up with together. The more cases he can look at, the greater the chance of something from mine fitting together with something from yours and something else from someone else's, and pointing him at the people doing it."

"Assuming they're all the same people, yeah."

"They'd have to be using similar tactics at least, I'd think. They're blocking the signal to the chips somehow, for example."

"Right, true. Okay, let me know when you want to get together and I'll fly out. At your place, right? Or are we gonna meet in the middle? St. Louis, maybe?"

"Probably my place," Liam said with an eyeroll.

"Cool, I'll be there."

"Thanks, Mark."

 

"--so Vincent's coming in from New York, and Clooney's sending his Agent. I don't know how much they'll be able to help us, since they're on the other end of the country and I hope it's not all the same gang, but they can listen in and then go home and get their own effort started," Liam said to Thewlis.

"True," Thewlis agreed. "It's the five from California and the one from Nevada I have hopes for, though. If we can find some commonality between them, it'll help point us in the right direction."

"That's next week, though. What do you have for me now?" Liam knew it wasn't realistic to expect everyone he'd contacted to drop their business and fly out tomorrow, much less that evening, but he couldn't banish the urgency he felt.

Thewlis flipped a couple of pages in his notebook and changed gears. "Nothing positive, but some positive negatives, if that's not too contradictory. I managed to find someone who agreed to take me as a guest to a floating club, purely underground and very illegal -- gambling, drugs, cage fights, and slaves for a variety of uses. A one-stop entertainment center, which moves around the area, usually in warehouses or cheap industrial parks, other abandoned venues."

Liam could well imagine his boy in a place like that. A beautiful young man like Orlando would be very popular with the sort of people who enjoy breaking things just to hear them smash. "I take it you didn't find him there."

"No, and in this case I consider it good news. I couldn't get to every slave in the place, so I left and called a friend of mine with the local police department. They raided the place within half an hour, and he let me watch while they brought everyone out. I had a look at every face, including the ones who had to be carried, and none of them matched Orlando's picture."

"Good. And bad." Liam sighed and rubbed his eyes. "The fact that he wasn't there doesn't mean he isn't someplace else even worse. I wish you'd found him."

"I wish so too, my Lord. But some of the slaves they brought out were dead, and a few more will likely have to be put out of their misery. I'm very glad he wasn't one of those."

Liam just nodded and tried not to think about all the other possibilities.


	12. Chapter 12

**[Two Years Ago]**

Orlando hung up his master's suit jacket and put the hanger on the end of the bar, with the other things that needed to go to the cleaners. Master Liam had his trousers undone by the time Orlando turned back around; Orlando helped him off with them, holding the waistband low while his master stepped out of them, then hung them up next to the jacket.

It'd been obvious on the ride home that the Master wasn't overly pleased by how the review had gone. Heck, it'd been obvious earlier than that -- the project manager and senior engineers had been full of excuses for schedule slip. And then they'd wanted extra money because some of Master Liam's employees had requested additions and changes by talking directly to the programmers rather than going through contracts. The work had been done, a list of little easy changes that'd added up to quite a lot, not even counting the necessity for additional documentation and testing, and the contractor was expecting payment after the fact for changes no one with any authority had authorized.

Master Liam was angry at the contractors for the schedule slips, and at his own people for being idiot bit-heads with no concept of how business worked. He was tense and frustrated, and the quiet but intense working-over he'd given his own management team after the review hadn't helped much.

Orlando unbuttoned his master's cuffs and slid the shirt off his arms. He tossed it aside to go down the laundry chute later, then took a few moments to massage his master's shoulders. They were solid with stress, and just rubbing didn't help much.

His master patted his arm and shrugged him off, then headed into the bathroom to wash up a bit. Orlando stripped down as fast as he could, then went over to the banded chest to one side of the dressing room and got out a riding crop. He took it into the bedroom and knelt down on the carpet in present position with the crop laid across his palms.

A couple minutes later, Master Liam came out and stopped, then said, "You always know what I need."

"Yes, Master." Orlando didn't bother to try to hide his smile, although he kept his eyes on the floor.

His master grasped Orlando's upper arm and had him stand, still holding the crop. He took Orlando's face in both hands and kissed him, long and hard, the kind of deep, possessive kiss that always melted Orlando's bones. The hands pushed up into Orlando's hair, and then wandered. By the time Master Liam straightened up, his hands on Orlando's back and ass were the only things keeping him on his feet.

His toes left the floor and the Master carried him over to the big bed, leaning in for half a dozen more short, pecking kisses while he walked. He set Orlando down onto the mattress, then took the crop and set it aside before turning him over onto his stomach.

Orlando felt his master's weight on his back, pressing him down, and he squirmed with pleasure, just enough to feel some friction between their bodies. He loved the feel of it, of being completely surrounded and compressed. He wasn't small, but his master was so much bigger, both taller and broader, and when he lay on top of him, whether Orlando was facing up or down, he felt perfectly safe and protected.

Master Liam ground down into him, pressing them together skin-to-skin from shoulders to toes. Orlando arched his back as much as he could, pressing his ass up against his master's hardening cock, shifting back and forth just a little until it fit into his cleft. He felt his own erection swelling against the rough cotton of the bedspread, and let out a soft moan of pleasure.

His master's teeth bit down on the swell of Orlando's shoulder and his moan took a higher note of need. He felt the sting down into the muscle, and knew he'd have a bruise there for days, his master's mark in his skin, so much more personal than the brand he shared with every other slave. That bite was his master's and it was only for him, reminding him whom he belonged to with every aching throb.

Orlando felt his wrists clasped and pushed up to the headboard. Master Liam whispered, "Hold on," into his ear. He grabbed two of the smooth wooden bars in his hands and moaned, "Yes, Master." Then, "Master...!" when he felt the warm, solid weight leave his body.

"Hush. Breathe for me."

He took a deep breath and then the tip of the crop came down on his ass.

Orlando cried out, then bit his lip and squirmed when his master's hand came down and rubbed away the sting, leaving only the heat. Another smack, this one on his other cheek, and another rub. His shoulder, right over the already-burning bite, then a rub. His ass again, crossing one of the first swelling lash marks, then one thigh. His ass again, then high on his ribs. The sting and burn and pressure and heat spread across his body, until he could feel the currents in the air moving over his super-sensitized skin.

When every exhale was a pained, needy moan, the crop stilled. Then two slick fingers shoved into his ass, the burning stretch in his hole matching the swollen burn all around it. Orlando reared up, still holding onto the bars of the headboard but pushing his ass up in wordless begging.

"Do you feel me?" His master pulled out his fingers and pushed in with his solid, slicked cock.

"Master! Yes! Hot!"

"You feel the burn?" Master Liam wrapped his arms around Orlando's chest and pressed tight against him, pushing in with tiny thrusts of his hips.

"Yes!" Orlando sobbed, pushing backward as well as he could, stretched between his crushing grip on the headboard and his master's solid arms in the middle and Master's hard cock pinning him to the mattress. It burned wherever his master touched him, like his skin was howling its need in flaring nerves.

"You're so hot, red and swollen and hurting and still wanting me," his master snarled, pulling back and then pushing in hard.

Orlando gave a pained gasp, then moaned, "More, need you!" He wriggled as much as he could, rubbing his stinging back against the coarse hair on his master's chest. He wanted to feel every bit of him, skin and hair and teeth and fingernails and every barely-too-tight thrust of his cock.

Master Liam pulled him to his knees with a rough yank and thrust deeper. Orlando shouted in pain, then babbled more begging nonsense.

"You need this as much as I do."

Before Orlando could even manage a panting agreement, his master bit him again, this time on the side of his neck, right over his slave brand. The pain whiplashed through his body and he spasmed with pleasure, howling into the pillow while pumping come into the bedspread without his cock ever having been touched. He felt his ass clenching around his master's cock and it only took another handful of quick thrusts before Master Liam filled him and collapsed down onto his back.

In the boneless floating after orgasm, Orlando's back hurt a lot more than it had while his master had been either beating or fucking him. His stretched ass burned more too. It made him want to squirm, to try to find a more comfortable position, but it also made him feel more owned, more a possession of his master's than he felt at any other time. That burning ache, from shoulders to calves and deep inside, would remind him for days that the man he loved more than anyone in the world owned every bit of him, and right then he'd rather feel that pain than anything else he could think of.

 

**[Today]**

Marton ran the numbers and frowned. Expenses had been higher than he'd projected when he'd first come up with the plan; he'd needed more help, and the second facility had been a quick addition when the third target had gotten stubborn. That'd been expensive, and set him back almost fifty thousand so far.

When he first started, it'd never occurred to Marton that there might be any slaves who _didn't_ want to get away from their owners. Once he ran into it, it was obvious, and he'd wanted to smack himself in the forehead for not _thinking._ There were slaves who had it pretty good and knew it, and didn't want to take the chance of ending up somewhere worse, and there were slaves whose situation was shit but who were more afraid of their owner than they were of anyone or anything else, definitely including Marton himself. A longer, more intense approach was needed to break down both kinds.

And then there were the ones who just never got with the program no matter what he did. For them, there was the black market. Marton didn't like selling to them; they were liable to be raided at any time, which could end up leading back to Marton, and besides they paid for shit. Half their "slaves" were kidnapped straight off the street without ever having been through Commerce in the first place. After all, who was going to believe a slave who claimed to actually be a free person? Fake up the brand pattern, lock a collar on them and there you go -- instant slave, at least so far as the kind of people who patronized the black market were concerned.

Marton avoided selling to them when he could, but so far he'd had to sell four in that direction. Financial losses there, hardly worth the cost of processing. Although with the last one he'd recognized the futility of it right away and sold the kid within a week of pulling her chip out; she was practically catatonic by the time Marton had unloaded her and good riddance.

That was the real trick of it -- choosing the right targets. You really couldn't tell without interaction, though -- some of the ones who'd absolutely insisted that they _had_ to go back to their owner had been bruised up, so what else were you supposed to look for? -- and talking to a slave and then letting it go on its way was dangerous. If anyone noticed the people who struck up conversations with random slaves out by themselves, and put it together with the slaves who "ran away," things could get awkward.

Didn't matter anyway. Marton figured he could make his goal with just two more. Even cutting their Commerce contact in for a bigger slice, he could write some bigger paper on the next two, hit the mark and get out. If the boys wanted to stay around and keep going, that was up to them -- Anderson was the only one who'd ever met the Commerce rep so they could work for him. Or sort it out among themselves; Marton didn't care.

He'd been in it long enough, and the air was starting to feel twitchy. He'd always known he wouldn't be able to do this forever, had never _wanted_ to do it forever, and there was a feeling under his skin like something was closing in. Definitely time to get out. Marton had plans, and they involved getting out of the Empire with a huge stash of cash. Retirement was looking better and better.


	13. Chapter 13

**[Today]**

Ben had always known it'd happen. No matter what Master Marton had promised, Ben had always known that some day it'd be his turn to take the ride down to the Commerce office -- the real one -- and try his luck with the system one more time. So when Marton told him that it was time, he'd just nodded and asked what his new name was going to be.

Kevin Martinez wasn't a bad name; he'd seen slaves processed through with a lot worse. Not that it mattered, since an owner could call their slaves whatever they wanted, and he remembered thinking that the new "Cyril Shimmelpennick's" owner had probably swapped _that_ name out for something else before the toner had cooled on his ownership papers.

Ben was dark enough to pass for Latino, or part, so that worked. And he paid close attention when Master Marton had reeled off his new birthday, his home town, and how much his debt had been for.

Master Marton gave him a pleased nod at all his eager cooperation, and said that they were going to make a detour on the way to Commerce. Ben -- or Kevin now, he'd have to remember that -- even got to ride in front, instead of chained in the back like most of the outgoing slaves.

They pulled into the parking lot and he recognized the fake Commerce office; he'd been there a few times, pretending he was going too, to make it look better for some of the twitchier targets. None of the Plan B slaves remembered him from the Plan A attempts -- the drugs made sure of that -- so he could play fellow captive and be one more person the stubborn slaves could try to "convince" that they were really Bobby Jones or whoever. One more person to disbelieve them, to report them for lying or being crazy and get them punished.

It was all about conditioning, Master Marton had said, like smacking a dog when it shit in the house and giving it a cookie when it shit outside. People were no different and eventually they could be trained too, if you could control their environment and all their interactions.

Master Marton had done his psych rotation at a government reeducation hospital near the Quebec border, he'd said once, and the experience had come in handy.

Whatever. All Ben/Kevin knew was he didn't want any of that shit pulled on _him,_ so he smiled and nodded and made sure he looked happy to be moving on.

He'd get him later.

Because the Master had made promises. He'd said that if Ben helped him, if he cooperated and helped turn the other slaves cooperative, he'd let Ben go when it was all done. He said he'd give him his new identity and send him out with no chip and no brand and a set of cards and papers and a chance to try again on his own, to make a free life for himself.

Ben hadn't really believed him, but he was angry at the betrayal anyway. It was the principle of the thing. So he walked along behind Master Marton, through the door and into the faked-up office all quiet and dutiful like a good slave boy, and bided his time.

They went straight through to the office, where Mr. Anderson was watching one of the monitors.

"Good timing," he called over his shoulder. "I just sent Oren in there doing the janitor thing."

"Still stubborn?" asked Master Marton. He crossed the room and pulled over a chair next to Mr. Anderson's. Kevin followed and stood behind them, a pace back but still close enough to see and hear.

"Like trying to pry off a pit bull," Mr. Anderson said.

He sounded disgusted, and no wonder. Usually enough beatings for "lying" would get slaves to cooperate. Kevin had only seen a couple get this far.

"He's been trying to convince me he's changed his tune the last couple of days," Mr. Anderson continued. "His routine's so fake it creaks. This'll flush him out, though, and give him a good smack."

David was curled up on the floor in a training room, breathing in short, shallow gasps like it hurt. He held himself like _everything_ hurt, and Kevin was pretty sure it did. He was chained to the cinderblock wall and his wrists were dark with old blood.

Then the door opened and Orem plodded in, pushing a big plastic barrel on wheels. He ignored David and went over to a plastic-lined bin in one corner, then used a set of steel tongs to pull bloody rags out of it and toss them into his barrel.

David watched him through blackened eyes that were swollen almost closed. He glanced at the door, which was still propped open, but must've had enough brains left to know that making a dash while you were chained by both wrists, and beaten so you could hardly move anyway, would be pretty stupid. Instead he called out in a low, raspy voice, "Hey."

Orem ignored him and went on with his work, leaning over the bin to fish around in the bottom with his tongs.

"Hey," David called again, a little louder this time.

"Not interested, bud," said Orem, still without looking around. "Even if I were into guys, you're pretty trashed."

"No, that's not--" David stopped and coughed, then groaned and wrapped his arms around his ribs. Orem put his tongs away and started back for the door.

"No, wait! I mean, want to make some money?"

Orem kept going. "If you had any money you wouldn't be here," he said.

"My master does!" David babbled, obviously talking as fast as he could, desperate to get through to the "janitor" before he left. "This is a huge mistake! I'm already a slave and someone grabbed me off the street and my master'll pay a lot of money to get me back! Please, if you help he'll pay you, I swear!"

That made Orem pause. He stared at David for a moment, then poked his head out the cell door and peered up and down the hall. He came back in and shut the door, then approached David, just out of reach of the chains.

"Supposing I even believe you, am I supposed to go knock on this guy's door or what? And how much money are we talking about?"

"I don't know, lots," David promised. "My name is Orlando and my master is Lord Neeson. He's really rich! He owns a bunch of companies and a huge estate and eighteen slaves and he'll want me back! Do you have something to write on, I'll give you his phone number."

"All right, all right, fine. No phone number, though -- if you're bullshitting me and he has an ID display then he could come after me and give me grief. Give me his e-mail and I'll send him a note and see what he says."

"Yes! Yes, fine, yes, thank you!" Kevin thought David was going to faint with relief. He babbled the e-mail address at least five times while Orem patted his pockets and dug out an old work order and then found a pen that worked. David repeated the e-mail another half dozen times while Orem wrote it down carefully, drawing each letter with his tongue between his teeth, then wrote down "Orlando's" name.

"Okay, I'll write this lordship here and we'll see what he says." He glared down at David while stashing the paper and pen back into his pockets. "If you're shittin' me, though, I'm gonna tell Mr. Anderson you're playing games and he'll kick the crap outa you. More than he has already, even."

"No, I swear it's true, thank you! Thank you so much! I can't believe finally--"

"Right, right, whatever." Orem waved David to silence and added, "We'll see," before he opened the door and vanished through it with his barrel.

David collapsed back against the wall, a euphoric smile on his face.

Mr. Anderson grinned. "There. That should have him floating six feet off the ground for the next few days."

Master Marton nodded. "And the higher he goes, the harder he'll hit when he falls. That should do it." He stood up and said, "Orem does good work. I'm glad you found him."

Kevin hoped David enjoyed his happy little secret while it lasted.

 

When Thewlis had been in college, he'd majored in sociology with an emphasis on modern slavery. He'd thrown in the minor in administration of justice on a whim, because a couple of the classes had looked interesting and it'd been easier to justify taking a few more with a formally registered minor. The major had seemed like a good choice, though; Berkeley had always been a hotbed of political activism and social consciousness, and he'd had to fight with hundreds of other students to get into some of the more interesting classes on slavery.

Once he'd graduated, however, he found that there was much less interest in the subject out in the real world. Unless he wanted to actually work for Commerce -- which he most emphatically did not -- there were few paying jobs available for a bright-eyed young idealist with a shiny new Master's degree and a repertoire of canned speeches on the evils of slavery and the abuses inherent in the system.

The admin justice, ironically, turned out to be all that stood between him and Commerce himself when his student loans came due. He knew enough about the law and the justice system not to get arrested (although it'd been a close thing a few times) and his Masters research had taught him how to dig up information. Some unoffical investigations with payment under the table had kept a collar from around his throat until he'd taken enough supplementary classes to sit for his PI's exam, and it'd been an essentially straight road from there.

A private investigator's life was nothing like television. Most of it was boring -- hours spent searching through various archives and public records, more hours spent making lists and checking items off one at a time, and still more hours of trying to talk to people who didn't want to talk to him and weren't overly polite in how they said so.

He was good at it, though, and experience had made him better. It paid the bills, which was the important part.

And every now and then, he was handed a puzzle which was actually interesting.

Thewlis still had occasional contact with old college friends, and he was starting to suspect that whoever'd grabbed Lord Neeson's Orlando hadn't had a personal grudge or goal. He'd spent considerable time investigating Neeson's primary business rivals -- taking his Lordship's word, of course, for who probably might or likely wouldn't have a current grudge or goal worthy of such a radical tactic -- and nothing had made his investigative nose twitch.

There was always the possibility that the scheme had been hatched through half a dozen layers of flunkies. Actually, that was much _more_ likely than that the top man or woman had gotten personally involved. Crossing off those options, however, would likely take months of painstaking investigation, tracing every contact through however many branches resulted. Even discounting sub rosa communications which would be extremely difficult and perhaps impossible to detect for anyone with fewer reources than the Imperial government, he was still looking at months if not years of work; the trail would've gone corpse-cold long before he had any hope of stumbling across a clue, even assuming the business angle was the correct one.

Much easier and more productive for Lord Neeson to keep an eye on his competitors and see if any of them suddenly popped up with a packet of devastatingly useful information. The brute force method Thewlis filed under last ditch efforts, to be attempted only when all else failed.

Thewlis had another idea he was following up.

The fact that Orlando hadn't turned up at all yet -- hadn't been found wandering, hadn't been taken to a hospital, hadn't even been found, used and discarded, at a morgue -- was pointing him in one of two directions. One he could investigate on his own. The other he'd need help with.

He got on the phone and dialed a fairly important man's personal number.

"Nick? This is Thewlis. We need to talk and it's fairly sensitive. Where can we meet?"


	14. Chapter 14

"I'm still not convinced this is a good idea," Thewlis said softly.

He and Lord Neeson were approaching the back entrance to what had once been an upscale department store in a busy mall in east San Jose. The mall was closed and the area around it run-down and crime-ridden. Thewlis had gotten word that one of the floating clubs was going to be there that weekend, and had made the mistake of mentioning it in the next day's report to his employer, rather than investigating and then delivering the results.

His Lordship, who'd been winding himself ever-tighter, like a spring about to snap over the more than two weeks since his Orlando had been taken, had stated that he was going along, in a tone of voice which allowed for absolutely no possibility of contradiction.

Thewlis _had_ contradicted him, of course, but it'd been like shouting into the wind. The best he'd accomplished was to get Neeson to agree that Thewlis would come over and advise him while he got ready to go. Personally, Thewlis doubted his Lordship had anything at all in his wardrobe which would blend in, but he was willing to do his best with whatever there was to work with.

Johnny'd been there to help as well, looking nearly as grim as his master. During a few moments alone, while Neeson was still in the shower, Thewlis leaned over to Johnny and whispered, "I don't suppose there's any chance you could talk him out of this?"   
The slave's answer was a raised eyebrow. "What do _you_ think?"

Thewlis had expected as much. He looked over Johnny, who was about Thewlis's own age but in much better shape, and had clearly had a lot more to work with from the start. He could blend in very nicely with minimal effort. "It's too bad you can't come along," he commented.

"We'll take him, then," said Neeson, who was just stepping into the bedroom with a towel around his waist. "Whatever you think will help."

"I'm sorry, my Lord," Thewlis said with a slight bow, "but we can't. Even if you allowed him to go out without his collar, a turtleneck would stand out in that crowd, and anything else would let his brand show."

"So what?"

Thewlis counted to ten quickly in his mind, then said, "We're going to have enough trouble hiding the fact that you're a Lord out slumming without having you drag along what's obviously a body-slave."

Neeson glared at Thewlis, his hands on his hips, completely ignoring Johnny, who was drying him off with a second towel. "Again, so what? There _are_ Lords who go slumming, and I'm willing to be taken for one of those under the circumstances."

"That's true, My Lord, there are." Thewlis concentrated on maintaining eye contact while Johnny removed the last towel and held a pair of expensive looking boxer-briefs for his master to step into. "But you're either too old or insufficiently dissipated to be taken for 'one of those.'"

His Lordship snorted at that, but luckily relented and so they went alone. Thewlis would still have rather had Johnny instead, but sometimes you just had to play the hand fate and the nobility dealt you.

They climbed four concrete steps off the cracked parking lot and stepped up to the shadowed door, a thick, metal affair next to a larger roll-up loading bay, set into a rippling aluminum wall which had once been part of the chain's identity -- all sleek and retro-modern, like something from the mid-twentieth century. Thewlis gave the password to a bouncer dressed like a security guard. He gave them a look-over, then let them in.

The back stock areas were dark and dingy, with just enough dim lamps here and there so women in heels wouldn't break their ankles. All the windows were long-ago boarded up, but the trespassers still kept the more attention-drawing activity to the inner core of the building, where nothing would leak out whenever people entered or left.

Another bouncer, this one in a janitor's coverall, opened an inner door and the lights and music blared out.

They stepped through and to one side, taking in what they could make out of the main floor, then wandered around the periphery, watching the people and looking for side doors and passages, of which there were quite a few. Everything they could see was either found in place or portable -- partitions had been left up and the skeletons of larger displays rigged to make more, breaking the space up into hallways and cubicles. The smaller spaces surrounded the open center area, which was focused on the dance floor, essentially a cleared space on the store's linoleum, with a bolted-together bar on either end. The sound equipment was on rollers, with the wheels locked but ready to go at any time, and likewise the coolers and small refrigeration units around the bars. Pack it all into a few vans, or maybe a small panel truck, and they could be gone within minutes.

When they'd made it halfway around the main area, Neeson said, "It's a club," with a silently implied "So what?" attached.

Thewlis nodded, but pointed discreetly at a mostly-naked young woman sliding through the crowd, dancing with whoever grabbed her. "Branded, so she's a slave. But the heavy anklets are what keep her here. They'll have run a wire around the perimeter; if she crosses it, she gets a shock that feels like someone's taking her feet off with a hot saw. Like electronic dog collars, but moreso."

Neeson scowled. "Stolen?"

"I don't know, My Lord. Possibly. Or possibly the employment here is of the sort to inspire legally owned slaves to try their luck on the run."

Thewlis guided his employer down a passage to one of the smaller areas around the periphery, with one hand on the sleeve of the man's jacket -- black leather, dug out of the back of his Lordship's dressing room by Johnny, who'd also found a pair of jeans (too nice but at least black) and had donated a plain white stretch T-shirt, which was too small but appropriately so for the occasion. Lord Neeson still stood out -- as he would have in any case, if only for being six inches taller than nearly everyone else -- but at least it was a sort of standing-out which drew admiration rather than suspicion.

For a while he thought he'd have to persuade Lord Neeson to pretend they were a couple so Thewlis could fend off various interested parties, but after one or two jolts, the man slid into persona and did a fine job of it on his own, negotiating his way through the crowds with smiles and stares and raised eyebrows as well as shoulders and elbows.

Neeson caught him staring once and leaned down to whisper, "I _was_ young once, you know," with a sardonic raise of one eyebrow.

Whenever they turned a corner or passed through a doorway, though, Thewlis tensed and did his best to scan the new faces before his employer could. They'd had a rather heated talk on the way over about what his Lordship would, or rather would _not_ do if he did find Orlando. Thewlis was pretty sure he knew what the man would _want_ to do, and it'd taken a good twenty-five miles' worth of argument to persuade him that grabbing him up, pounding on anyone who'd been hurting him, and trying to haul him out the door would be counterproductive. While they searched, he pointed out the many bouncers who would definitely be able to overpower even a supremely angry nobleman, and the provisions made for quick-retreat with all the equipment owned by the club organizers. He eventually got Neeson to agree that diving in and causing a fuss would only result in Orlando and everyone attached to the club vanishing long before any authorities could arrive. If they did find Orlando, Thewlis would text a contact of his with the local police department and they'd wait quietly, no matter what was going on.

Thewlis still wasn't sure everything would go to plan if the time came, no matter what Neeson agreed to when he was calm and thinking rationally, but it was the best he'd been able to manage.

The farther away from the brightly lit dance floor they got, the wilder and less legal the activities got. There were things one wasn't allowed to do to even a slave, but since the club was illegal anyway, no one particularly cared about rules and laws. The activities ranged from what one would find in the allowed-but-expensive slave-staffed brothels, to activities usually seen only in movies with large special effects budgets.

In a back room whose concrete walls muffled most of the sound -- probably a finance office and possibly a vault -- a shrieking young man chained down to an elevated display block was being violently taken apart by four wild-eyed club-goers with whips. They were so drunk they hit each other periodically, but they just cursed and laughed and went back to their "fun." The floor was sticky with blood and sloshing in places, and festive arcs of blood-spatter decorated the walls, the ceiling, and anyone who'd been in the room watching for more than a few seconds.

Thewlis saw Neeson staring wide-eyed at the unfortunate slave's dark, curly hair, and decided they were done. He grabbed the man's forearm and hauled him out.

He shoved Neeson into an empty corner with orders to close his eyes and breathe, and got out his phone.

No signal.

He scowled, then remembered the aluminum-clad outer walls. Right -- the place had been built some decades before every customer expected to be able to get a cell phone signal 24/7.

Which might be a coincidence, or might mean the place had been deliberately chosen as one where stolen slaves could be used without Commerce being able to ping their chips. He definitely needed to make that call.

His employer in tow once more, Thewlis headed toward one of the periphery walls. He'd come to this store with his mother when he was a kid and remembered... right, there it was -- a set of bathrooms along the outer wall. He remembered they had windows; it'd been the first time he'd ever seen those frosted glass bricks.

There was no sign up, and no lights; the club runners obviously preferred people use the restrooms toward the center of the store near the escalators. Thewlis headed straight for the other set, though, making it clear he knew where he was going and no one objected. He and Lord Neeson went in without being hassled and were alone in the pitch-black room.

"Is there a reason for being here?" his Lordship asked in a low voice.

"I need to get a phone signal. There's a window in here." Thewlis pulled a small flashlight out of his pocket and switched it on, then crossed the room and started feeling around the edge of the window.

"Why didn't we just leave, then?"

"Because, My Lord, the pair of us rather stand out. I don't want anyone in this crowd to remember that we came in, stayed less than an hour, and then left shortly before the police arrived."

Neeson nodded and followed him across the room. He started poking at the glass bricks on the other side of the window, working his way up, higher than Thewlis could reach. "Here," he said. "I think I can get this one out, the mortar's all rotted."

"Excellent." Thewlis pulled out his phone again and typed in a text message to a certain detective with the local PD. Lord Neeson set one of the glass bricks down on the floor, then reached up again and pushed hard on the piece of plywood fastened over the window on the outside. It'd been there for quite a while, and it wasn't at all improbable that some of the locals had tried to pry it off some time in the past. A few good shoves and several nails gave with a crunch-creak, letting the wood swing away from the wall by a few inches.

Thewlis reached up with his phone, saw that he had a signal, and hit "Send."

"There, that'll do it. The cavalry will be arriving within a few minutes. Let's go have a drink and wait for them. I don't know about you, but after seeing that boy, I could use a Scotch."

Neeson nodded and they both went back to the main area and up to one of the bars.

After he knocked back the glass Thewlis had fetched for him, Neeson muttered, "Ambulance coming?"

Thewlis looked away and said, "No. Or rather, yes, they'll have a couple waiting. The boy's nearly dead, though; he's lost far too much blood and the rate of loss will only increase as they continue cutting him. By the time help arrives, it'll be too late."

Of course, there were varying values of "late." For a free man, particularly one with money, they'd likely have time to pump in a few units of blood, along with enough drugs to keep him stable until they hit a hospital and could get him in for emergency surgery, probably the first of several rounds. For a slave, particularly a slave whose master was in jail, or who'd been stolen long enough ago that he was essentially off the books, no one would bother. Commerce would cut its losses and move on, focusing more on prosecuting the (temporarily) free offender than on salvaging the merchandise. Emergency workers knew the policy and wouldn't try any heroic measures unless there was an owner or a Commerce agent standing right there giving orders and authorizing payment.

Neeson gave him a hard stare and said, "You're damn cold about all this."

"After a while one becomes hardened to it.," Thewlis replied. "I don't like it, but I couldn't do my job otherwise."

"I suppose." Neeson stared off into the crowd, looking both thoughtful and angry, and Thewlis left him alone until the police came bursting in from all sides. They had riot gear and bullhorns, and Thewlis made sure he and his employer obeyed their orders explicitly until things had calmed down to a more orderly clean-up operation.

By the time he spotted his contact, who eventually pulled them out of the processing line, they'd seen a good fifteen injured slaves helped or carried out, plus two bodies. Detective Juarez steered them outside and into a dark patch of parking lot.

"What do you know about this operation, Thewlis? We got some weird stuff going on."

"Very little, I'm afraid," Thewlis said. "I heard through a contact -- friend of a friend of a friend sort of thing -- that the club would be here. My employer is searching for a stolen slave, and I suspect the sort of people who run these clubs would be likely to buy on the black market. Even Commerce would never stand for some of what we saw inside."

"And just who's your employer?" asked Juarez, eyeing Neeson up and down with the typical suspicion of a long-time cop.

Thewlis squeezed Neeson's arm and said, "His Lordship will be happy to give _you_ his name, but would prefer it be kept out of official records if possible."

Juarez snorted and said, "Great, just what I need on top of everything else. So, name?"

"William Elliot Neeson." His Lordship pulled a wallet out of an inside pocket of his jacket and handed his driver's license to the detective, who tucked it between two fingers while copying info into his notebook.

"Heh. Bill-E? Will-E? Your parents weren't thinking much ahead, were they?"

Neeson gave him an unamused glare down his nose and said, "It's Liam, actually."

Juarez ignored the attitude and said, "Sure, that works." He finished writing and handed the card back. "All right, the department appreciates the call and all, but I doubt there's anything here for you. You can stay and eyeball everyone we bring out if you want, but so far none of the employees are actually slaves. They all have brands, probably faked, but none of 'em are chipped. They're likely just playing slave to add to the thrill, jack up the price some."

 _"None_ of them have chips?" Thewlis asked sharply. He scowled and wondered what was going on. Something _had_ to be wrong because he couldn't imagine free employees agreeing to some of what'd gone on inside.

Of course, black market slaves weren't always _legally_ slaves. Runaways, homeless, prostitutes and other bottom-feeders -- it wasn't unknown for gangs to pick them up, people who wouldn't be missed or whose associates didn't have enough power to chance a complaint, and just declare them slaves. A good tattoo artist could probably fake up the brand pattern well enough, for enough cash, and most people had never seen a real one up close.

Although there was a simpler solution....

"None so far," said Juarez with a shrug. "Like I said, you can stick around just in case, but don't get in the way."

"If it wouldn't be any trouble, may I see one or two of the non-slaves up close?"

Juarez gave him a hard glare. "You got an idea? What's up?"

"I thought of another possibility. Let's look for scars."

"Scars? From--?" Juarez stopped and scowled.

"A scar?" Neeson, who'd been looking distracted since Juarez had said there were no slaves in the group, straightened up and stared over at the scuttle of activity near the lights and vans. "Like from an incision to remove a chip? Orlando's chip never showed up on scans. They could've removed it so he couldn't be found."

"Exactly," Thewlis said, nodding. "Detective?"

"I'll go look. You two stay here." Juarez headed off, not quite running.

"So Orlando _could_ still be here," Neeson said. Thewlis could tell he wanted to charge right over and start tearing through the huddled slaves, searching. The man had more self-control than Thewlis would've expected, under the circumstances.

"Possibly." Or possibly the operation had just gotten bigger. He definitely needed to talk to Nick Cage.


	15. Chapter 15

Liam had never really noticed before how much of the room was taken up with body-slaves. It made sense, of course; they were almost half the occupants. Everyone present in the hotel ballroom, except for the catering staff, had a body-slave nearby.

Everyone except him, of course.

Someone had asked. There always had to be someone who'd ask, despite how rude it was.

"So, Neeson, where's your boy?"

"Not with me tonight," had been his short, chilly answer. Perfectly obvious, but more of a reply than the idiot deserved.

Liam hadn't wanted to go that night, but of course he had. It was for an excellent cause and he was on the foundation's board and he didn't have anything close to a decent excuse to stay home, so he'd managed to dress himself, since Johnny was in Dallas for next two days, and sat in the back of the car brooding while Javier drove him.

He confined himself to a single glass of wine before dinner and another one during. He knew that if he didn't discipline himself, it'd be too easy to fall into a drunken melancholy during which he'd likely say any number of ludicrous things and embarrass himself in some spectacular way.

It was difficult, but he managed. Of course he did -- he was a Neeson and any alternative was unthinkable.

Being without Orlando made him more aware of the other body-slaves in the room, though. There was a wide variety in presentation -- how the slaves were dressed, how they held themselves, how their masters treated them. Some were in evening clothes, tuxedos and evening gowns calculated to set off their owners' outfits. Some were dressed more simply, like a fantasy version of Slave Togs: short velvet dresses, clingy silk shorts and tunics, gold-strapped sandals.

Then there were the more outlandish costumes designed solely to attract attention, like Roday's latest pair, decked out in eye-blindingly bright harem-girl and -boy outfits, with enough precious metals and glittering gems to outfit a flea market stall. The one saving grace was that they hadn't brought any animals with them.

There was the usual abundance of slinky (two-legged) cats, complete with ears and tails, and occasionally with _only_ ears and tails. A few puppies in bright collars and one plumed pony rounded out the play-animals, but there were other slaves on the floor -- some who walked beside their owners and knelt whenever they stopped, and others who crawled everywhere.

Liam had never been one for that sort of display at a formal event, but he could generally appreciate a nice ass well presented.

Generally. They weren't doing much for him at the moment, though.

Dinner was up to standard but unspectacular, and everyone at his table had the manners to ignore the empty spot on the floor beside him. After the dinner dishes were cleared away, Liam made his speech, thanking the donors and praising the At Bay Foundation's work cleaning up the Bay Area's wetlands, then sat down. His applause was automatic through the rest of the speeches and after the presentation given by the ABF's operations director. Once the dessert plates had been cleared, he started counting the minutes until he could gracefully leave.

Ten minutes short of his goal, he was standing to one side talking with a few acquaintances when two men behind him mentioned his name in overly-loud, slightly-drunken voices.

"--surprised Neeson doesn't have a slave with him. Is he one of _those?"_

"No, not at all! He has a gorgeous, dark-haired boy with cheekbones to kill for. _And_ a brain in his head -- Greg tells me the boy is a first-rate assistant. Maybe not quite a _boy_ anymore, getting a little old for the job, but I'd tap that and go away happy, I'll tell you."

"You haven't? Neeson doesn't share, then?"

"Hardly ever and only when he's present himself. You know you've made his inner circle when he lets you touch Orlando."

The other man laughed and said, "Well, keep working on it, you might still get lucky!" Then they both laughed and Liam heard glasses clinking.

Lord Jobs gave Liam a sardonic smile and said, his voice just a touch loud, "I have a feeling that one's _never_ going to be a member of your 'inner circle,' Liam."

Liam smirked back at him, then turned around and faced one man he recognized and one he didn't. Both were staring at him in aghast social panic. He gave them a cold stare down his nose, barely allowing one corner of his mouth to quirk into a smile to match lord Jobs's, and lifted his glass to them before turning back to his previous conversation.

He wanted to punch both of them, and especially the unfortunate Mr. Carver. Not only for speaking disrespectfully of him, too loudly and in public, but because he'd have to stay at least an extra half hour so as not to give the impression that he was leaving _because_ of them.

He wanted to go home. He wanted to check in with Thewlis. He wanted to just drive around, searching.

Instead he sipped his drink and debated with Jobs, Raymond and MacDonald about Eastwood's run for governor.

 

It was hard to count the days, so Orlando didn't know how long it'd been since the janitor had promised to contact his master. It seemed like at least a month -- a year! -- but he knew it couldn't have been that long, not really. Actually, once he thought about it, it probably wasn't even two weeks.

He tried to remember how many meals he'd had. He'd started counting them but they came irregularly, and he'd lost track after ten anyway. So it'd been more than ten meals, but not twenty. But sometimes he didn't get fed for a while -- and in fact it'd been a long time since his last feeding and that'd only been a granola bar -- so he had no idea how long it'd been. Maybe the janitor just hadn't had an opportunity to talk to him? Or maybe Master Liam was working on getting him back and the janitor figured he didn't need to tell him because he'd be out soon?

Orlando was huddled on the concrete floor of his cell, his arms wrapped around his legs, trying to keep warm. He'd never really thought about the cold before. He'd lived in California all his life, and while he did need shoes and socks and a jacket to go outside in winter, he'd never before tried to sleep when it was too cold, right there, in the room with him. He was tired and chilled, groggy with fatigue but kept awake by the shivers.

He wondered whether he was even still _in_ California.

Maybe they'd taken him somewhere else. He had no idea how long he'd been out when they'd drugged him that first time.

For that matter, he had no idea whether he'd really been drugged. His memories of that day were fuzzy and it was fading, like something he'd seen or heard about or dreamed.

The door to his cell opened and Mr. Anderson came in. Orlando tensed and scrambled back to huddle against the wall. He knew it was pointless but couldn't help it.

That day, though, Mr. Anderson just clipped a leash to his collar and said, "Come." Orlando stood up on creaky-cold joints and followed him out into the corridor and down to the training room.

The usual routine was to lock him to the wall and beat on him until he was willing to say his name was David. It took a while, but he'd been giving in more and more quickly. Bruises on top of bruises built up, along with cuts and scrapes and what felt like a cracked rib, and Orlando just couldn't take very much anymore.

This time, though, Anderson just pointed to a spot in the middle of the floor and said, "Kneel." Orlando walked over and sank into a kneeling present without even thinking about it, his hands resting on his thighs, palms up.

"Hands at your sides," Anderson said. "Knees closer together."

That was... well, weird, but Orlando obeyed anyway. Maybe Commerce trained slaves differently? Or maybe they didn't want him to be a body-slave? He _was_ kind of old for it, if they thought he'd be just starting out. Thirty-one -- the same age Johnny'd been when Master Liam had retired him to Agent, and Johnny'd said it was just as well--

His wandering memory was interrupted by a smack on the back of the head. It didn't hurt much, but startled him back to the there-and-then.

"Pay attention," said Mr. Anderson. "We're trying something new." He picked up a plastic bowl from a table and dragged a chair over, then sat in front of Orlando with the bowl on his lap. "You haven't eaten for a while and I imagine you're getting hungry. I have food here." He held up a grape, and tipped the bowl to show Orlando that it was full of cut-up fruit. "When you tell me what I want to hear, you get to eat. If you don't, you don't. Simple."

Orlando glared up at him and clamped his mouth shut.

"Oh, come on," said Anderson, his voice light and coaxing. "What difference do the words make? At this point I don't care whether you believe it or not, I just want to hear it. You can pretend you're an actor if you want, saying lines for a play. Or you can think about how smart you are, manipulating me into feeding you when actually my clever scheme to get you to accept your true identity isn't working at all. Whatever works for you. I just need to hear you say your real name, and then you get to eat."

"My real name is Orlando Bloom."

"Wrong." Anderson ate the grape and fished a slice of banana out of the bowl. "Try again."

Orlando _was_ hungry. He didn't know how long it'd been since he'd last eaten, but it'd been longer than his stomach liked. And he could smell the fruit; the sweetness drifting through the air made his mouth water. He swallowed hard and said, "Orlando."

"Wrong again." Anderson ate the banana slice. Next out of the bowl was a chunk of apple. It was neatly cored and sliced, with the dappled red skin still on, its flesh white and fresh-looking with no sign of brown.

He whispered, "Orlando," and the apple slice vanished.

They worked their way through the fruit -- pitted cherries and slices of peach and chunks of pineapple. Anderson ate each piece himself, apparently just as happy to have it. Finally they were down to one last piece, another grape.

"This is it," Mr. Anderson said. He tipped the bowl again to show Orlando that it contained only juice. "Sure you're not hungry?"

Throughout the whole process he hadn't hit Orlando at all, except for the light smack on the head to get his attention. He hadn't shown any anger or even annoyance. He wasn't fighting, just making an offer; it was up to Orlando to take the deal or not.

He wanted to. His stomach was twisting with hunger, so close to the fruit and having to watch it disappear piece by piece. And it really _didn't_ matter what he said. He knew who he was, and Anderson had even said he didn't care what Orlando thought or believed.

Anderson was watching him, studying him. He interrupted Orlando's internal agonizing by waving the grape slightly and saying, "Don't want it, then?" and started to eat it.

Orlando blurted out, "David Timothy Grant!" then froze, wide-eyed, and hated himself for giving in.

"Very good!" Mr. Anderson's smile was warm and his voice full of praise. He held out the grape and fed it to Orlando. He could feel Mr. Anderson's warm fingers against his lips while he took the grape, bit into it and felt the juice, tasted the sweetness.

"That was excellent. Say it one more time and you can clean the bowl." Anderson put the plastic bowl down on the floor. There was at least an inch of syrupy juice in it, with a few shreds of pulp floating in it. The rich, sugary scent was overwhelming.

Orlando said, "David Timothy Grant" one more time, then pushed his face into the bowl without waiting for permission. He didn't even think about using his hands, he just cleaned the bowl with his tongue like a dog, savoring every drop, not caring that his face was sticky by the time he was done, and a few strands of hair were gooped up with juice.

Anderson's hand was patting his head and a voice was telling him he was a good boy. He polished the bowl and hoped his master got him out soon.


	16. Chapter 16

Thewlis met with Nick Cage at his office. It was on the twenty-seventh story of a twenty-nine story building, and unlike most executive offices Thewlis had ever been in, Nick's didn't have any windows. It was both rich looking and functional, with good furniture well used, and nothing useless just for show.

"Remember Musgrave? Dropped out in his sophomore year? He's a contractor now," said Cage. He gestured for Thewlis to have a seat on a chic sofa across the room from Cage's messy desk, while settling into an armchair himself. "He did the place for me. I told him I wanted this block of rooms to be built like a bank vault. It was expensive, and took some extra support on the floor below, but it's worth it. We have bug-zappers and scanners all around, and above and below. And if Big Brother doesn't like it he can kiss my ass.

"So, what's up, Dave?"

Thewlis leaned forward with his elbows on his knees and laced his fingers together. This wasn't exactly a topic one brought up with a stranger. Cage wasn't a stranger but he wasn't exactly a friend either; they'd hardly spoken at all since Berkeley. He decided that circling around a little would be the best way to start. "I'm working on a case, a missing slave."

"You chasing runaways now?" Cage's voice was hard and neutral, and Thewlis could see his body language shutting down while he watched.

"No, never," he assured him. "This is something else. A man was kidnapped out of a parking lot, just vanished. Everyone who knows him, including his mother and his sister, swear -- without their owner or any flunky of his listening -- that Orlando was deliriously happy and would've left his master only at gunpoint."

"Nice brainwashing job."

"Maybe," Thewlis admitted. "I'll admit I don't really understand it. Lord Neeson's a hard man and I can't imagine he's easy to get close to."

"Neeson? Huh."

"You know him?"

"I know _of_ him. Seen him at a few events. Our business has never overlapped and I don't think I've ever spoken with him. You hear things, though, if you listen."

"Anything interesting?"

"To you? Probably not." Cage shrugged and stared at the wall past Thewlis's shoulder for a few seconds. "He can be a real bastard if you cross him. Guy named Cotter -- owned TSP? -- tried to force a buy-out of one of his companies behind his back some years ago. The usual bribes and under-the-table crap. Neeson marshalled the troops and saved his company, then drove the guy into bankruptcy four years later. _And_ beat the crap out of him. Cotter's a slave now and Neeson walked away with a broken nose and a respectful talking-to."

Thewlis could imagine Neeson doing exactly that, actually. "Not one to go through channels," he said with a nod.

Cage snorted out a laugh. "That's an understatement. He rules his little kingdom with an iron fist, and everyone had better bow when he walks by. Things go his way, always, and if they don't want to then he forces it. He's not one to sit by and let the system work."

"Which is why he hired me, when the police already have a detective assigned to the case. Or had -- I've gotten the impression they've filed it as unsolveable and have moved on to other things, although they haven't told his Lordship so in so many words yet."

"Yeah, I don't imagine that'd sit very well with him."

There was a pause, then Thewlis asked, "So, is he on the A-list?"

Cage's face closed again, shifting into a perfectly neutral mask. "Assuming we were still in college, getting stoned and playing at abolition?" He shrugged and shook his head. "No, he wouldn't be. He's a hard-ass but I've never heard any rumors that he's any worse of a slave owner than anyone else. I sure as hell wouldn't want to belong to him, but he doesn't buy seven-year-old body-slaves to 'finish their training himself,' and the only times dead slaves are carried off his place is when they were old and known to be heading downhill anyway, or after verifiable accidents, and only two of those since he took over from his father."

"So you _have_ been keeping an eye on him."

"He's a slave owner," said Cage, with an exaggeratedly casual shrug. "Isn't it the duty of every citizen of conscience to look out for the welfare of those who cannot look out for themselves?"

Thewlis smiled and raised an eyebrow. "Most people would say no, that it's Commerce's job to look out for the slaves _they_ own and everyone else's job to mind their own business and not make trouble."

"Yeah, well, fuck that." Cage leaned forward and said, "I didn't actually know much about Neeson myself until a couple of days ago. When you called, I did some checking on _you_ and his name came up as part of that. What do you want, Thewlis?"

So, enough polite chat then. "I told you I'm searching for this lost slave of Neeson's. I don't hold out much hope of finding him, but while looking I've found something disturbing. You remember what we used to talk about? Trying to figure out a way of taking slaves out of the system so they could have regular lives again? Maybe not their own lives, but still, a new start and a fresh chance."

Cage just watched him, so Thewlis went on. "Neeson and I were at an underground club, one of the mobile ones? They were set up in an abandoned building. They were doing things to slaves in there that...." He paused and closed his eyes for a moment. "Things even Commerce wouldn't allow." He looked at Cage and said, "Except when the police got there and started sorting things out, they didn't seem to be slaves. There were brands but no chips, and they assumed the brands were faked, to add to the 'thrill' of the scene by pretending they had slaves for people to tear up.

"But that didn't sound right. There was no way free people would've allowed some of that, they couldn't have been just employees."

"Organized crime isn't always picky about where it gets its 'slaves,'" Cage pointed out.

"Yes, I know that. But still, it didn't feel right. They checked, and more than half the fake slaves turned out to have incision scars which were unexplainable unless they'd had chips removed."

"Huh." Cage scowled, looking thoughtful. "I guess it's not impossible that someone else thought of removing them. I mean, they're right there below the skin."

"No, not impossible," Thewlis agreed. "But odd. Buttons were used for decoration for centuries before anyone invented the buttonhole. Just because an idea is obvious once you've thought of it doesn't mean people will think of it right away."

Cage rolled his eyes. "You always knew the weirdest shit."

"You'd be amazed how often it helps," Thewlis retorted. "And it's frustrating how often it doesn't. The easiest explanation, though, is that someone who was with us when _we_ came up with the idea passed it along to others who don't share our ideals."

"Do _you_ still hold those ideals?"

Thewlis sighed and looked Cage straight in the eyes. "I believe slavery is inherently wrong, yes. I won't take jobs to track runaways, and I won't work for A-lister types. Other than that, I'm not active."

"Huh. Well, none of us are 'active' so far as that goes."

"There don't seem to be any good options, no," Thewlis agreed. "But do you know of anyone who might have become completely disillusioned?"

"You mean anyone who might've decided that pulling slaves off the grid to sell to the underground worked out better for him personally than pulling them off and trying to smuggle them out or set them up with new identities? I'll admit that one's an income producer and the other's a money sink, but...." He paused and scowled again. "I just hate to think that any of the guys could've turned completely around. It's one thing to drift away from the ideals and start swapping body-slaves with the other assholes who treat them like fuck dolls with a pulse, but to actually go that far? Sucks, man."

"So who's the least unlikely? I remember Michael got into a lot of arguments at meetings -- maybe he soured on the whole thing?"

Cage frowned, then shook his head. "I don't think so. He and Aaron got into it a lot, yeah, but that was just Michael being all intense about his computers and Aaron jabbing him about it. Turns out Michael was right after all."

"True," Thewlis agreed, "but only to a point. Commerce has their system sewn up tight and anyone caught even trying to break in ends up as just another record in their database."

"Sure, but there are other ways." Cage made a throwing-away motion and said, "If you're trying to get a slave set up with a new ident, there are a lot of other places a hacker can help you out; you don't need to crack Commerce."

"Still," Thewlis persisted, "maybe the disappointment? The one unbeatable challenge, one too dangerous to even try?"

"I suppose anything is possible, but I don't think so. If you're trying to figure out who's running this show, I don't think Michael had it in him. He was a great code jock, but didn't have a lot of sense for real world planning."

"So in a way, Aaron was right as well."

Cage grinned and shook his head. "Nah, not really. He thought Michael was great -- he just loved to twist his tail. They'd get going like World War Three, remember? Aaron kept score by how loud they ended up. Poor Marty ended up getting ear plugs. He said it was that or murder the lot of us."

Thewlis laughed at the memory of Cage's hapless roommate, always doing his best to ignore whatever was going on around him and focus on the next paper or exam. "I don't know if I'd even remember what he looked like. He was always buried in a book."

"Hell, I always figured he'd do better than any of us. He actually focused on his classes instead of fucking off like we did. I think he ended up becoming some hot-shot plastic surgeon."

Thewlis remembered the earnest, passionate discussions and sank back down out of their laughing memories. "I never thought of it as fucking off at the time," he said, his voice quiet once more. "We were so sure we were going to change the world."

"Yeah, well, long history of that at Berkeley." Cage paused and stared at the wall for a few moments, then said, "Cam never struck me as all that dedicated. He was a decent guy, but I always got the impression he was just there to try to get into Van's pants."

A quick run through a handful of memories of Cam had Thewlis nodding slowly. "You're right, although I hadn't thought of it that way before. He seemed like a good guy, though. Not really dedicated to the cause, no, but not the kind of bastard who'd get his kicks out of abusing slaves or sending them out to be abused."

"I wouldn't have thought so either," said Cage, "but that was a long time ago and he could've changed. I mean, I seriously can't imagine _any_ of the old crowd turning this far, but if it's someone then Cam's as good a candidate as anyone. It's just that no one's a good candidate."

"No, but it just seems it has to be one of us. Everything together -- didn't Aaron come up with the idea of using an electronic fence? When I brought up the problem of slaves we'd taken not understanding and maybe trying to escape from _us_ and taking down the whole operation?"

Cage nodded. "Right, Aaron'd had a dog back home and his dad had put up one of those fences. He thought it could help keep the people we grabbed hunkered down until we could explain things and find a permanent place for them."

"That club we took down was using that idea with their slaves. In fact, a lot of the underground clubs use it, only they crank up the amperage until any slave who goes near the wire is left all but dead."

"A lot of people could've come up with that, though."

"I know, I know." Thewlis closed his eyes and leaned back, frustrated that he couldn't explain the hunch he was riding. "And other people could've come up with the other things too. But everything, all together? Maybe, but I don't think so. It just feels like there's a connection."

"Well, I'll do some poking around and see where everyone is and what they're up to," Cage said. "I hope you're wrong, but if you're not, I agree we need to take care of this."


	17. Chapter 17

He memorized David's personal data -- full name, old address and phone number (because obviously he didn't live there anymore), social security number and birthday and parents' names, and learned to pick out photos of his house and his parents -- in exchange for two more bowls of fruit, one bite at a time, on two separate days. Or at least two separate meals.

He memorized David's job title, and the address and phone number of the store he'd worked at, and his boss's name and his co-worker's names, and learned to recognize photos of the store and his boss and his co-workers, in exchange for bites of a ham and cheddar sandwich.

He memorized the details of David's debt, the time period when he'd driven to Mr. Csokas's casino just over the border and played, the specific dates when he'd signed promissory notes for larger and larger sums so he could keep playing, the lies David had told on the applications for those notes and the name of the friend who'd answered the phone and played the part of his boss to confirm the falsely exaggerated employment which had led Mr. Csokas to continue lending him money, over a series of dinners -- pork chops and steak and fried chicken, baked potatoes and rice pilaf and mac-and-cheese, steamed green beans and honeyed carrots and broccoli parmesan.

Orlando was feeling comfortably full most of the time, in contrast with his first however long at Commerce. And the pain had been fading, too; the bruises were hardly visible and his ribs didn't ache anymore when he sat up or twisted.

And he was pretty sure he was hanging on to his Orlando identity, despite everything. He'd gotten used to saying his David name, and reciting David's information on request, but it hadn't _really_ changed who he was inside. He felt the same as he always had, and he could still bring up Master Liam's face out of his memory, and his mother and Samantha.

Yes, he was answering to David, and practicing telling people that he was David, and everyone he came into contact with at the Commerce center -- not that there were many, but anyone who _did_ talk to him -- knew him as David.

And once or twice he'd caught himself thinking of himself as David, but that was just habit. It didn't mean anything, really. It was just that he was going along to get fed to keep his energy up, not getting beaten and letting himself get strong again. That just made sense, right?

He still had no way of tracking time, but at that moment he was pretty sure it'd been a while since he'd been fed, long enough that it was time for another session, so when the door to his cell opened, he wasn't afraid, at least not at first. Not until he saw the janitor following Mr. Anderson in.

Orlando pressed back against the cold concrete wall without ever making a conscious choice to do it. Seeing the two of them together, both of them together and staring at him meant... meant something which couldn't possibly be real and so his higher brain functions just shut down while his animal brain shrank back and searched for an escape route which didn't exist.

Mr. Anderson said, without looking at the janitor, still staring down at Orlando, "Tell David what you told me."

The janitor gave Anderson a nervous glance, then scowled down at Orlando. "I told him how you told me you already had a master, that you told me to call him and I said I wouldn't and you said--" He stumbled to a stop and muttered under his breath, then said, "You know what you did. Anyway, I e-mailed that Lord Neeson like you said and his answer near blew out my screen! He said I had a lotta nerve for bothering him and that he wasn't interested in anything I had to say, nor any ideas I might have for getting money out of 'im." He sneered and looked like he'd have spat on the floor if his boss hadn't been standing right there. "So what've you got to say to that, then?"

Orlando was shaking his head, his eyes wide and his mouth barely open. He'd been expecting it -- from the minute they'd walked in together he'd been expecting it but it was _still_ impossible, he couldn't force himself to believe that there was any world at all where Master Liam would deny him like that.

"It couldn't -- I mean, he wouldn't have.... What did you say? Did you give him my name? Did you tell him you know where I am, by name--?"

"David, stop." Mr. Anderson waved an impatient hand at him. "Just stop. You've had this fantasy since you came here about your fairy-tale lord who'd come charging in and rescue you and you've refused to let go of it no matter what we've done. I was willing to let you realize in your own time that the real world is the only one there is and that it's in your own best interests to accept that and learn to deal with your new life. But now you've involved Mr. Schmidt in your fantasies and have even gotten him to go behind my back for you. I'm going to have to let him go now because of your selfish delusions. I hope you realize that whatever hardship he or his family face now is all your doing."

Before Orlando could say a word, the janitor rounded on Mr. Anderson. "What? You're firing me?! You didn't say I was fired! I came and told you, I could've just kept quiet but I _told_ you--!"

"You plotted with a slave behind my back. I can't have you here any longer." Anderson sounded completely unmoved by the other man's upset.

"You bastard! You bring me in here all calm-like and all that time you knew you were gonna can me!"

"You can't possibly have expected to keep your job after this."

"If it'd turned out this _was_ some kinda mistake and that lord had come sweeping in here all grateful that we'd found his body-slave, you'd've been happy enough that I'd done it!"

Anderson gave him a patronizing smile. "I suppose I might have. But it wasn't and he didn't and you're still fired." He looked over his shoulder, toward the still-open door, and said, "Security?"

A large man in a grey uniform with a walkie-talkie and some kind of club on his belt walked in and stood behind the janitor.

"Take Mr. Schmidt to gather his things and _only_ his things, then escort him to his car." To the janitor, Anderson said, "You'll receive your final check and dismissal paperwork in the mail."

He turned and faced Orlando once more, ignoring the muttered cursing of the janitor on his way out. The security man followed him and closed the door behind them.

"Now," said Mr. Anderson. "As for you. I realize this transition period has been hard for you. I've done my best to make it easier for you recently and I thought perhaps we'd been making progress. No matter what you think, however, I need you to understand that this was your one and only chance to act out.

"If you attempt to suborn any other of the employees here, if you make any attempt to run away or cause any more trouble at all, I'll sell you directly to a toxic clean-up team where you'll soon have no hair, no teeth and be so covered in radiation burns and oozing sores that even that fantasy-master in your dreams would turn away from you. We'd lose money on the deal, but I just lost money today because of you, having to fire and replace a custodian. The clean-up teams don't require any training and I'd be able to get you off my hands and out of my facility immediately, cutting my losses. You do _not_ want to convince me that that's the most economical solution to this problem.

"Do you understand?"

Orlando swallowed hard, but before he could answer or even think of an answer, Anderson snapped, "I said, do - you - understand?"

"Yes!" Orlando had meant to yell but it came out a gasping whine. He coughed and blinked and rubbed his eyes, as though trying to clear away whatever it was that was blocking him from perceiving the real world because what he'd been hearing and seeing and experiencing _couldn't_ be it.

Could it?

Anderson said, "I'll leave you to think about that, then. I'll be back later and I'll expect you to be perfectly cooperative." He turned and left, leaving Orlando alone.

Or was it David?

In the world Orlando had lived in, it was absolutely impossible that his master would ever repudiate him, would ever disown him or reject him or fail to come get him if he got lost. It was the keystone of his universe and without it, the rest crumbled.

But it _had_ happened, so what did _that_ mean?

It had been so long -- unbearably long. He only saw Master Liam in his dreams, or in his waking fantasies when he was alone and wishing that _this_ was all a dream. But it wasn't, and it was pretty clear that it wasn't just a mistake, it wasn't something that'd gone wrong and would be fixed.

Where he was right there was the real world, as real as the concrete under his ass and behind his shoulders, as real as the healing sores and the hungry ache in his stomach.

And the rest...?

He remembered spending a lot of time on computers. That made sense, since he'd sold them for a living. He remembered his mother in the kitchen, and his sister in the garden -- that was normal. That was the kind of memory a normal person had. Slaves didn't have their mothers and sisters with them.

He remembered going to Las Vegas at least a couple of times. He remembered flying there, and doing some business and going to the hotels and walking through the casinos. He didn't remember gambling, but if he'd lost a lot of money, if his gambling really _had_ led to so much debt that he'd been enslaved, then maybe... maybe he'd just buried the memory? People did that with things they couldn't face, didn't they?

He remembered Master Liam, tall and strong, caring but stern. He remembered learning to ride and fish, going for walks together, sharing sandwiches out on the lawn while the ducks landed on the lake. He remembered Master Liam in the kitchen, stealing cookies from behind his mother's back. He remembered Master Liam so frightened and angry when he took Palisade out--

\--like a father. He remembered the tall, handsome man spending time with him and teaching him and indulging him all his life, letting him tag along after him whenever he was home, just like a busy father who was away on business a lot would indulge a son he didn't see often, spending time with him when he could.

That man, the one in his dreams -- was that his father? Had he taken the image of the father he loved and somehow twisted it in his imagination into a... a lover? Someone who'd love him and take care of him and protect him, even now, when he was thirty-one and old enough that he should be able to take care of himself? If he'd really done something as stupid as gambling himself into debt and into slavery, was he imagining now that his father would come and save him and carry him away and make it all better, like he had when he'd been small?

And what did it say about him that he saw his father as a lover?

He moaned and curled up into himself. It couldn't be true, but neither could the other. It _had_ to be a fantasy because his master would _always_ come for him, but he hadn't so it wasn't real, it was just something he'd imagined because he couldn't face what a fuck-up he'd been so he'd spun stories to himself about this fairy-tale land and it was all in his head, he'd dreamed it to give himself a place to escape to because being a slave whose master loved him was better than being an idiot who'd gamble himself into slavery and got himself sold to clean up toxic waste because he was so _stupid_ he couldn't even remember which world was real and which one only existed inside his useless head!

David sank down into the corner and shivered in the cold until he fell into an exhausted, dream-wracked sleep.

 

Marton watched through the monitor while David fought to comprehend what was happening to him. He could tell the exact moment when the young man broke, when he turned away from his real memories and accepted the life Marton had created for him. Finally.   
He nodded to Anderson and said, "There, with any luck that'll be it. Keep up the dosage -- a hundred fifty milligrams per day for one more week should do it. Then if the graft is healed sufficiently, you can sell him any time.

Anderson nodded and said, "Not a problem. Another week on that stuff and he won't be able to remember why he ever thought his memories were real. I'll let him stew for a couple of hours, then head in with another meal and run through the routine again."   
"Good." Marton slugged down the last of a cup of coffee and tossed the empty into a nearby trash can. "So, next up. I've got a boy at the office who's cooperating, luckily. He agrees that no one could be worse than his previous owner and is happy to have a vacation before trying his luck again. He's healing up well -- another three weeks and he should be ready to sell."

"Great." Anderson gave him a wry smile. "I'd just as soon not try to juggle two problem children at once."

"But you're so good at it," Marton teased.

"That's why you pay me the big bucks."

"I certainly do, to say nothing of the bonus you have coming. Speaking of which, I've decided not to renew on the new place after next month. When I'm done there, we'll pack everything into the trucks and leave them in the back lot right here; where you take them to set up next is up to you."

"I thought you needed another target after the one you've got now?" Anderson asked.

"I do, and we brought her in yesterday. She came through surgery just fine and is still out. But she shouldn't take more than six weeks to be ready to sell, even under Plan A, so letting the new place go in seven weeks won't be a problem. And if she's Plan B, then she'll be here in a couple of weeks anyway." Marton shrugged. "If that's the case then I'll just pack up and move in here for the last month. Then I'll be gone and it's all yours."

"Nice of you not to try to make me buy in," Anderson said. His voice was neutral, suspicious even, and Marton gave a mental sigh.

"I figured all the start-up costs when I set my goal, and these last three slaves'll give me that. I don't need you to buy me out, although if you insist...? No?" He grinned and shrugged. "Fine. I don't need to gouge you and you don't need to think of some way to kill me to avoid being gouged. Win-win, right?"

Anderson snorted. "Hey, if you're good with it then I'm not complaining."

"Excellent. I'll be heading back, then. Let me know if there are any problems with David."

"Will do."

Marton waved and left.


	18. Chapter 18

"That's all fine, but what exactly are we supposed to _do_ now?" Clooney's assistant, Margulies, tapped her blunt-filed fingers on the table and looked around at the gathering. "Assuming we're right and somewhere between half and two-thirds of the owners represented here actually _have_ been victims of a slave theft, now what? Is there any point to it besides sharing and support-group?"

A few of the other owners scowled at the woman, but Liam approved of people who focused on business and getting things done.

"First," he said, "we keep spreading the word that this is indeed happening. The silence and secrecy is making it far too easy for the thieves -- no one's even chasing them. No one's investigating, no one's watching for them or taking precautions against theft. Let's at least make them work for it."

"So, what then?" asked Mark Vincent. "The chips were supposed to let Commerce track any slave who disappeared. If the thieves are popping the chips, then what -- do I have to buy a bodyguard to follow Max around whenever he's running errands?

"And what about my kids?" put in Lord Smith. "I've always let my body-slaves hang with them when Jada and I are busy, take them to the park or the beach or whatever. If someone decides to grab Tisha will they hurt my kids? Or just leave them on their own somewhere?" He sounded both scared and pissed, and Liam could empathize in a way which would've been impossible before he'd had Jamie and Paula.

"So far as we've been able to determine," said Thewlis, "every time a slave has been stolen, he or she has been alone. We can surmise that the thieves are reluctant to leave witnesses, and so far there's been no sign of violence toward potential witnesses. Since a major component of their strategy has been concealment, I think it's safe to assume that they'd avoid harming any child whose parents have the means to raise a large-scale pursuit."

"But you're still just guessing." Smith's voice was flat, and he obviously wasn't convinced.

"Yes, My Lord," Thewlis acknowledged. "We haven't enough data to state anything with absolute certainty yet."

"Which means that yeah, I need a bodyguard for Tisha if I want to keep my kids safe with her until we get this resolved."

"That assumes any final resolution is possible." Liam met Smith's eyes, then looked around the table at the others. "We don't know that there is. It's not as though there's been a final resolution to car theft or file theft or identity theft, so I'm not betting on ever being able to file this one closed once and for all either."

"I agree," said Thewlis with a nod. "Completely wiping out the problem isn't a realistic goal. But you can start locking your doors, as it were, and make it as difficult as possible."

"What about getting the slaves back?" asked a quiet woman from the other end of the table. Her name was Anna, Liam remembered; she was an agent for some guy named Sinise, a bass player Tasha knew, whose band was successful enough that all its members had body-slaves.

"That, unfortunately, takes time and investigation." Thewlis shrugged and gave Liam an apologetic glance. "There's no quick way to do it. And we have no way of knowing for sure whether any given missing slave is still alive. To return to the auto theft analogy, sometimes a thief is simply a joyrider, and will leave the car parked somewhere, waiting to be found in somewhat reasonable condition. Sometimes the joyrider will leave the car wrapped around a tree."

Liam had to brace himself not to react to that statement. The thought of Orlando having been used to the point of death and then dumped made his stomach churn.

Thewlis continued, saying, "The body of a slave, if found by the police, is turned over to Commerce and the previous owner is not informed unless there's an open investigation. As most of you have discovered, investigations into missing slaves are not kept open by the police for very long.

"On behalf of Lord Neeson, I'm assuming his slave is still alive. I've discovered a considerable black market for slaves -- more than I'd ever have assumed existed, analogous to the professional car thieves who steal cars for sale rather than personal use -- and if they were killing slaves wholesale some sort of word _would_ have spread."

"If you couldn't imagine them working the way they are, maybe you just can't imagine whatever they're doing to dump the bodies." Mark Vincent's harsh voice was rougher than usual and Liam knew he was thinking about Paul.

"That's always a possibility, Mr. Vincent," Thewlis admitted.

"So now what?" Ms. Margulies repeated. "The police won't help us, and Commerce certainly won't, so we're left hiring our own investigators? Do we hire _you?"_ She gave Thewlis a sharp look, but he shook his head.

"I'm afraid I haven't the time to take on eight more cases, even if they do turn out to be linked through the same theft gang," he said. "Although if the cases _are_ linked in any way, then pooling data would be helpful. I can recommend some people you might consider hiring. And it would benefit all of you to have whomever you do hire contact me; I'll brief them on what I've learned so far, and we can keep in contact and share information."

The gathered group exchanged glances and most nodded. While Thewlis tapped his PDA to send his card out, Liam said, "For future considerations, I have a meeting scheduled with a Commerce representative. They need to know what we've found, and I intend to suggest strongly that they work out a more secure way of tracking slaves, since the chips clearly aren't adequate. Any idiot with a pocket knife can apparently remove one, if they don't care much about the slave's pain or the chance of infection.

"Assuming I'm blown off -- since we all know just how personable Commerce representatives are, and how open the department is to outside suggestions--" he paused for a moment while snorts and smirks went around the table, "--I intend to escalate the matter immediately through Congress. Aside from our personal concerns, this problem seems to be building and no matter how hard Commerce tries to quash the information, it's only a matter of time before it's common knowledge that slaves _can_ be removed from the tracking system."

He paused once more to let that sink in, then said, "The last thing we need is a rash of both runaways _and_ thefts. A slave alone is a helpless target for violence and abuse, and some of the abuse I've seen recently would turn every stomach in this room. And the economic impact would be devastating. I'll keep you all informed as to the outcome of my meeting, and I suggest all of you be ready to contact your own representatives. One way or another, this _has_ to be addressed."

 

"Down!" The snapped command filled the room and the twenty-eight slaves in it slammed down to kneel and bonked their foreheads against the tile of the floor.

Kevin Martinez, who used to be Ben Barnes, remembered watching war movies when he was a kid. The first weeks of training for new slaves had reminded him of boot camp the first time he'd gone through, and it hadn't changed in the five years since.

It looked like the point was to teach the new recruits the rules, get them exercising and start them learning basic skills. The real purpose, though, was brainwashing.

You spent a person's whole life, however long it'd been, teaching them that killing someone else was horrible, evil and sick. When they were drafted into the military, though, the trainers had just a couple of months to convince them that it really was okay to off someone, so long as he was a "them" instead of an "us," and someone higher ranked told you to. Getting people to do a one-eighty on their morals about killing in that short a time meant some pretty harsh conditioning.

"Kneel!" Twenty-eight torsos swung up into position, spine straight, eyes down, hands clasped behind their backs.

And then there was the whole "unit" thing, and teamwork over all, and following orders no matter what. Most people weren't really into that stuff, and the military pretty much had to break down a person's identity, their sense of self and independence and who they thought they were until all that was left was a sort of squishy pile of raw material you could use to build a person out of. Then they built the guy back up again into the kind of person the military needed, so they'd end up with all these ranks of guys who thought exactly alike and would obey orders, with just enough independent thought to handle weird situations in a war or whatever, but always within boundaries.

Slave training was like that, only moreso, and the final constructed product had a lot less independent thought.

Ben had been about to graduate college with a bachelor's in psych when his mom was enslaved. It turned out she'd been living on credit, trying to stretch things out as much as she could, but it'd finally snapped back on her. Then Ben was alone and there was no money for grad school and not a whole lot of jobs for someone with only a four-year psych degree. There were plenty of people with more education than he had scrambling for work, competing with him for whatever was available, and within a year he'd been enslaved himself.

The conditioning was obvious, though, even when he was in the middle of it. He'd recognized what Csokas was doing, too, and had been able to go along and keep himself in limbo for a while by using his training to help the asshole.

The second time around, it was easier; "Kevin" knew what was coming and where the traps were. He knew when to answer and when to keep his mouth shut, and he had some ideas about what the trainers were looking for when they wanted to make examples.

"Stand!" Kevin shifted his weight and stood up, not quite as gracefully as he could have, but without unclasping his hands. Not everyone could manage that yet and the trainers' batons swung, impacting struggling flesh. The six who yelled got another whack. The two who yelled again got a third. One man, a little older than Kevin, couldn't keep quiet and finally collapsed into a crying huddle while the trainer beat him unconscious.

Kevin had been careful, though, in the first couple of weeks, not to be _too_ good at the whole slave thing. Brand new slaves who were too enthusiastic about cooperating were suspected of having escape plans and tended to get worked over extra hard, by both the regular trainers and the psych team. And he didn't want anyone to get suspicious about how he knew certain things already -- both information and things like proper positions and postures -- and start asking questions. Kevin had no intention of telling the Commerce goons anything about his real past or his recent history. He had definite plans about using what he knew, but it'd only be for _his_ benefit, when he could get something out of it.

At the same time, though, he wanted to get onto the Good Little Slave list as soon as he could, and get sold off to some place where he'd have at least a prayer of getting access to a computer. His strategy'd been to go in all stressed-out and unable to cope, trying hard but too tense and depressed to manage for a while. Then, just a few days earlier, he'd faked up a nice crisis point and started to relax.

The new Kevin stopped fighting, stopped trying to figure the world out, stopped trying to take control of his life. He just let go and did what he was told, hopeless and dull.

Within the next few days, Kevin would "discover" how much easier it was to have other people taking responsibility, to having someone else guide him and tell him what to do. He'd relax into his "new" role and even show some contentment at times -- the trainers loved that shit, thinking someone had broken and decided that life as a slave was actually not that bad. Much easier than having to think for yourself and be responsible for yourself and take the heat when your decisions were wrong.

If he could manage a good report out of intake training, he'd have a decent chance of being sold somewhere tolerable. With luck he might even get tapped to be a body-slave again. He was kind of old for it, for just starting out, but he was still pretty hot if he did say so himself, and it wasn't impossible. That'd be perfect -- easy job, no hard labor, and about as much free access as any slave ever got.

"Down!" Twenty-seven sets of knees crashed to the hard floor once more.

Wherever he ended up, though, the goal was to contact that Neeson guy. That was his ticket out, and he fully intended to use it.


	19. Chapter 19

Everything David knew was wrong. Kneel up, kneel down, bow, present -- it was all wrong and Mr. Anderson had him drilling for hours every day. His knees were too far apart, his hands were in the wrong place, his posture was wrong -- Mr. Anderson circled him with a long, whippy switch and corrected him over and over and over, sometimes with just a tap and sometimes with a stinging smack.

He hardly ever got really beaten anymore. Mr. Anderson said it was because he was obviously trying, and the taps and smacks were just to help him remember. David didn't know why it was so _hard,_ though. He'd never had that much trouble before.

But then, where would he have learned any of that before? He had patchy memories, bits and pieces that didn't quite fit together, of learning all of this some time in the past, of doing well and being praised, but why would a free man ever have learned the proper way to make obeisance to a master?

The dreams still came, of the tall, handsome man -- his father, it had to be -- and the energetic, worried-looking woman -- his mother? -- and a dark-haired man who teased him, older than him but younger than the tall man -- a brother? -- but they were all tangled up with people from the store. His old boss, the cheap grump, and Lance, one of the other salesmen. He and Lance had been fiercely competitive in their sales numbers, but had always been able to go out for a beer afterward.

David had done a lot of things to make sales, but going down on his knees to a customer -- for _any_ reason -- wasn't one of them.

He still dreamed, though, warm and sexy and safe, and he was kneeling in some of _those_ memories. Cuddling and sex and... paperwork? Contracts and proxies and getting flogged until his ass was red and swollen and getting fucked and it feeling so _good_ even with the pain and the articles of incorporation and annual reports....

It _had_ to be a dream because that was just whacked.

That was probably it, though. He'd dreamed that he was a slave, or something sort of like it, and he'd _dreamed_ that he knew all the kneeling stuff but he really didn't.

That had to be it.

 

Johnny sorted through the paper mail while walking back up from the box. The driveway was nearly half a mile long so he always had plenty of time to do a first sort and read most of the business mail between the box and the house.

Advertiser, advertiser, legal, advertiser, invitation, advertiser--

Johnny stopped. The next piece was an official looking envelope with a Commerce office return address. That was never good news.

He started walking again and tore it open, pulling out the folded letter. Official notice, thirty days, deadline....

Oh, fuck.

Johnny closed his eyes and groaned out loud. He knew the driveway well enough to keep walking, but part of him wanted to turn around and go back and just... sleep under the mailbox or something.

That wouldn't work -- it was supposed to rain later that night and he'd catch pneumonia or something and die. Although that might be preferable to handing Master Liam the official notice that Orlando had been declared a runaway and removed from the master's custody, his contract revoked. The Department of Commerce was reclaiming custodianship of the absent and presumed runaway Orlando Bloom, leaving Lord Neeson without a body-slave.

Reclaiming. Johnny sneered down at the official seal. They'd never _had_ custody -- Orlando was home-grown and had always belonged to the master, Commerce had never had anything to do with it except for the one time the master'd had to take Orlando to the local Center up in Santa Clara as a baby to be chipped and branded and file all the right papers.

But that was just pointless grumping because it didn't change anything -- Master Liam had thirty days to acquire a new body-slave. If he was still without one on the thirty-first day from the date on the official notice, penalty fees would begin to accrue.

Johnny winced. He could just imagine his master's response to the threat of penalty fees.

He could certainly afford to pay, but there were other considerations. There'd already been comments about Orlando's absence, and questions about Johnny's reappearance on his knees at Liam's side. Reinstating him as a body-slave was one option, although Johnny couldn't do all the travelling he'd been doing over the last... hell, more than a decade now, and serve as a body-slave too. The master really did need someone else.

He wasn't going to like that. Hell, Johnny didn't actually like it himself. Bringing in some stranger, no matter how well trained -- the master could handle any little Chad-style punk they might end up with, but he didn't need that kind of hassle just then, not with everything else going on.

Master Liam was absolutely sure that Orlando would be found. It reminded Johnny of twelve years ago when the master had been just as sure that Orlando would walk again, and damn if he hadn't been right, despite what the doctors had told him. But this was different and Johnny was afraid they'd never see Orlando again.

Even if he _was_ found, he didn't belong to the master anymore -- Commerce would take him and if they insisted on treating him like a runaway, he'd be better off dead. He _would_ be dead soon enough, which sucked and Johnny'd never say so out loud to the master, but it was true, everyone knew it.

Fuck.

Johnny trudged back up to the house, more slowly than usual, his whole body tight with stress.

He'd just leave the letter on Master Liam's desk, and hope to be somewhere else -- somewhere far away -- when the master read it.

 

Thewlis was just about to pack it in and head home when his phone rang. He considered just leaving it to voicemail, but then he recognized the number and grabbed it.

"Thewlis."

"This is Juarez. You still interested in the Eastridge bust?"

"Definitely. Anything new turn up?"

"Yeah, something weird. The ME noticed that one of the bodies we took out of the place not only had a scar which could've been from a chip removal, but he'd had a slave brand taken off too."

"Taken off?" Thewlis had to stop himself from taking the phone away from his ear and staring at it. "How do you take off a freeze brand?"

"Some kind of skin graft. Nice job, too. The doc said the only reason she noticed was because a whip had cut into it -- it was that guy they took apart? -- and she was looking at the wound, noticed some weird borders where there shouldn't be any borders and went poking."

"A graft? That didn't show at all?" Thewlis frowned and tried to remember what he'd read on the subject. It wasn't much, but enough to know-- "That's not a cheap procedure."

"Hell no," agreed Juarez. "Doc said a regular graft is just to keep everything covered while new skin grows in and there's always scars. This is something else -- she said it takes a sheet of something fancy that helps keep the sewn-on skin alive and getting all attached and whatever, so it blends with the rest of your skin around it."

"And just the surgeon's bill will likely run you enough to buy... well, perhaps not a car, but a decent motorcycle. As I said, not cheap."

"Right. So whoever did this spent a boatload of money on hiding the fact that this guy is a slave, then what -- used him as a disposable party favor? It's crazy."

"I agree, it makes no sense." Thewlis frowned and tried to come up with some scenario where spending however many thousands of dollars on pulling a slave out of the system and then just killing him was a logical course of action. "Why kill the slave who'd cost a large amount of money when any one of their other slaves -- presumably their cheaper slaves -- would have done as well?"

"Punishment?" Juarez suggested. "Maybe the guy'd been acting up and they decided to just get rid of him? Example to all the others at the same time."

"Perhaps," Thewlis said, but he was dubious. "I can think of any number of punishments which would've made almost as great an impact, though, and would have left the man alive to be used later. And if I can come up with several, I'm sure the club organizers could think of dozens."

"Yeah, in their sleep. So again, why waste him?"

Thewlis had a thought. "Wait, maybe we're looking at this the wrong way. We're assuming the purpose of the surgery was to hide this particular man from Commerce. What if the surgery was the point of it, though? An end in itself?"

"What, some whack-job just likes playing surgeon?"

"I suppose that's a possibility as well, but I was thinking that perhaps a surgeon was perfecting a technique and the man was merely a... a practice piece. Removing the chip is one thing, but plastic surgery is a complex specialty and a doctor, even a surgeon, who wanted to be able to hide slaves from the system would likely need a few tries to work out exactly how to remove the brand without leaving any betraying marks."

"Huh." Juarez paused for a moment, then said, "So if the point was just the practice, then the surgeon who did it might not care much about how much he sold the guy for afterward?"

"Quite possibly not," Thewlis agreed. "If he just wanted a body to practice on, then whatever he got for it when he was done would've been a nice bonus, but not vital."

"That could explain how a slave with expensive work done on him ended up in that shithole club. But that means there's someone out there practicing to pull slaves out of the system. Commerce is gonna hemorrhage." Juarez didn't sound at all upset by that thought; in fact Thewlis could hear a grin in his voice.

"I imagine they will, whenever they figure it out," he said. He certainly wasn't going to tell them. Whether Detective Juarez was required to, or decided to, was up to him. So far as Thewlis was concerned, they were perhaps owed the basic data, but they could work out their own conclusions. With any luck, Juarez would agree.

"Thank you for letting me know what your ME found," he said.

Juarez replied, "Not a problem. That was a great tip, we're gonna send some real slimebags straight to the mines. You keep giving me that kind of good stuff, I don't mind sharing."

Thewlis had to smile at that and was just as glad Juarez couldn't see him grinning. "I still appreciate it. I'll let you know if I think of anything else."

"You do that. Later, Thewlis."

They hung up, and Thewlis went back to locking up, then left.

On the way home, his thoughts ran around in circles. There was something hovering at the back of his mind, something he should have thought of. Something obvious, something important, something fluttering for attention just out of reach.

He struggled to pin it down for a while, then gave up. It'd come when it was ready.

In the mean time, he needed to contact Nick again. Thewlis remembered arguments about the brand -- it was definitely the bottleneck when it came to getting slaves out of the system. Even if you shipped them to a place that actually had cold weather, even in Toronto or Minneapolis or Bangor, people who wore scarves or turtlenecks three hundred and sixty-five days a year would draw suspicion.

They'd talked about plastic surgery, though. It was a major investment in time and effort, to say nothing of requiring an absolutely trustworthy plastic surgeon. It was the best way to achieve their goal of true freedom for the slaves, or as close as they'd ever get, living on stolen or constructed identities, but the cost per slave....

Still, obviously someone was doing it, or was working up to it. Nick needed to know because this was one more major piece of their plan that someone else was abusing.

And then it hit him, so hard he almost sideswiped a parked car.

Marty.

Nick said Marty had become a plastic surgeon. Marty, who'd never been a real member of their group, but who'd been there for most of the discussions. Marty, who had all their ideas and also had the skills to pull off the hard parts himself.

Thewlis went barrelling through his front door eight minutes later. He shot off an e-mail to Nick, then started researching one Dr. Marton Csokas.


	20. Chapter 20

The following week, Thewlis found himself driving east down a barren highway toward the California-Nevada border. He'd discovered quite a lot about Marty Csokas and he was pretty sure he'd found their rat.

Nick had been right, Marty _had_ been a successful plastic surgeon. He'd practiced down in the LA area and had made a handsome living working on film and TV stars and assorted hangers-on and wannabes. Almost three years earlier, though, he'd been caught after doing an illegal breast enhancement on a young woman who wasn't quite old enough to authorize her own cosmetic surgery. The young woman's parents had been wealthy and powerful enough to ensure that Csokas lost his license -- so much for his career as a surgeon.

He'd sold his slaves and his house, and five months later he'd bought a casino just over the Nevada border. His address of record was less than a mile from the place, implying that he kept a close eye on his new property.

Thewlis crossed the state line, from one narrow chunk of asphalt running through dry, shades-of-dirt landscape to another, indistinguishable except for the sign. Less than fify yards beyond that was another sign, this one advertising the Silver Oasis. The sign stood in a row of other similar signs, and the casino stood in a row of other similar casinos. There were apparently quite a few people who didn't want to go all the way to Vegas for their gambling.

Or maybe not. He pulled into the parking lot and found a space more easily than he'd anticipated.

Inside, the air conditioning seemed to be working fine. Or maybe it was just that it didn't need to work with quite so much oomph on a sprawling space which wasn't packed as full of bodies as the big Vegas casinos had always been, the couple of times Thewlis had gone. The machines rang and tootled and babbled their Come Try! patter through the narrow, labyrinthine aisles, but the aisles were easy to negotiate without the usual blockage of bodies on stools. Multicolored lights swirled along the walls, up the columns and across the ceiling, but Thewlis noticed burned out bulbs here and there.

He wandered around the place, not hiding the fact that he was hunting for someone. He looked unsubtly at name badges whenever he passed a man of about the right age and coloring, reading titles as well as names. When he came across a guy with something managerish in his title, who also struck him as bored and maybe a bit lax, he made eye contact and asked, "Hey, is the boss around?"

"I'm the boss," said the man, whose name was Barry according to his badge. "What can I help you with?"

Thewlis ducked his head for a moment and gave a low, self-deprecating laugh, trying hard to project just the right bit of embarassment. "Sorry, I'm actually looking for Marty Csokas."

Barry raised an eyebrow. "Do you have an appointment to see Mr. Csokas?"

"No, not really." Thewlis shrugged and made a vague gesture with one hand. "I was on my way to Vegas for a meeting and remembered Marty's place was out here and thought I'd stop. Is he around?"

The guy gave him a look up and down, then said, "No, Mr. Csokas isn't in today."

Thewlis lit a grin widen for a moment, then said, "Well, that's too bad." He gave Barry a half-wink and straightened up a bit, as though relaxing.

Barry took the bait and said, "You don't look too upset over missing him...?"

"Well, I guess I should be." Thewlis looked down again, just for a moment, and put on a sheepish expression. "Truth is, I haven't seen him in ages. We went to college together, saw each other occasionally after, but were never _best_ friends or anything. Good guy to hang with, but we wandered off in different directions, you know? Last time we were together, though, I was having some trouble. His practice was booming and he lent me some money. I've felt kinda bad about never having paid him back, so when another friend told me he owns this place now, I thought I could stop by and take care of it. Not a problem if I missed him, though -- it's not like he was expecting me or anything."

He got a smirk from Barry. "I guess you'd just as well keep on missing him, eh?"

"Sorta." Thewlis looked off to one side and rubbed his neck, projecting embarassment again. "It's not that I don't have the money or anything. I'm just not looking forward to seeing him, you know? I mean, he helped me out and I vanished on him and I feel bad about it now."

"You oughta just send it to him, get it over with."

"I could," admitted Thewlis. "I mean, I probably should, you're right. It's just that after all this time it's like I should put it in his hand, look him in the eye, you know?" He glanced at his watch and said, "Hey, can I buy you a drink? I don't have to be in town till three, no reason to get right back on the road."

"Sure," said Barry. "I guess I can spend some time with an old friend of the owner." He grinned and led the way between blackjack tables to a bar. They sat under one of the keno machines and ordered. Thewlis got a beer, figuring he could drink one and get over it before he got back in the car. Barry ordered a bourbon on the rocks; Thewlis didn't know whether there was no one to call him on drinking on duty, or whether the bartender would charge bourbon prices -- since Thewlis was paying -- and hand the manager iced tea. He didn't much care either way, although some alcoholic lubricant would be helpful.

He looked around, letting his curiosity show. "So how's it going? I was kinda surprised when I heard he'd changed careers and all. He'd always said he had the best job in the world, up to his eyebrows in tits. Although I guess there're some nice ones around here too?" He put on a lecherous smirk and got one in return from Barry.

"Sure, sure, a few. Not so many as there used to be, though." Barry crossed his arms and leaned back against the padded booth. "My aunt worked here back in the day and she says the place was really jumping then. Packed every weekend, and a decent crowd weekdays. Some good acts, brought people out from LA sometimes. And lotsa meat, both sexes."

"So what happened?" Thewlis asked, sounding curious but not _too_ curious.

"Hey, if I knew, I'd fix it." Barry shrugged. He took a sip of his bourbon or whatever it was, then said, "Buncha stuff I guess. Hardly anyone drives to Vegas anymore so we don't get the through traffic. No airports around here. Train goes from LA to Vegas in two hours so who wants to stop here? Anything we've got, they've got more and bigger and better."

"Sounds like you might as well just liquidate," Thewlis commented. "Shut down before it all trickles away, you know?"

"When Mr. Csokas bought out Mr. Dominguez, we thought he was gonna do exactly that," Barry admitted. "Then he didn't sell and we thought he had some investments lined up or something. Refurbish, maybe. Get some good acts in again. Advertise like crazy. Something. But he didn't do that either. Tell you the truth," he said, leaning in toward Thewlis and lowering his voice, "he's hardly ever here. Comes in once or twice a month, max, so even if you do stop by on your way home, he probably won't be here then either."

"Really?" Thewlis raised an eyebrow and frowned. "Well, thanks for telling me. I'll remember that."

 

"--so he's hardly there," Thewlis wrapped up with a shrug. He could all but hear Lord Neeson scowling over the phone, so he added, "For a man who was used to living quite well, and who has no other source of income I can discover, it's odd that he ignores the place."

"Which means it's _not_ his sole source of income," snarled Neeson. "He's our thief, then."

"I think it likely, My Lord, but all the evidence so far is circumstantial. He might well be content to siphon whatever profits the Silver Oasis provides and otherwise leave the drudgery of everyday management to his staff." Not that Thewlis believed that, but the last thing he wanted was to have his employer go off half-cocked in a rage, on scant evidence and a lot of supposition.

"You said that when he was in college he was all about the money, though," Neeson argued. "That doesn't sound like the sort of man who'd be content with whatever change he can squeeze out of a marginal business."

"That's true, but people _do_ change," Thewlis countered. "I went by his house and it was modest, perhaps twelve hundred square feet, and reasonably well kept but not elaborately so."

"Maybe he has another house somewhere else. Under another name?"

"That's possible, My Lord, but difficult to manage. Although it's always possible he has a confederate and a second residence is in that person's name."

"And we have no idea who that might be."

No, My Lord." Thewlis felt like apologizing; his wonderful lead was turning out to be considerably less fruitful than he'd hoped. "I think it's best at this point if we keep that thought in mind, but act on what we have, which is Csokas's business and primary residence of record."

"He wasn't home," Neeson stated, with no tone of question at all.

"No, My Lord. Nor was there a car in the driveway, although it might've been in the garage." Thewlis shook his head. "We have nothing to give to the police at this point. I'll continue watching for a few days and see if he comes home."

"Do you think you'll get anything useful out of him?" Lord Neeson sounded skeptical.

"No, and I'm not going to try speaking with him. If he'd been at the casino, then of course I'd have sounded him out, but at this point I think it would be better, when he comes home, if I watched him instead and followed him. If we're lucky, and assuming he _is_ our thief, he might lead me to wherever he holds the slaves before selling them."

There was a brief pause, then Neeson said, "Unless he's just as hands-off _that_ business as he is with the casino. For all we know he leaves that one to staff too and just collects the money. Especially given the distances. Why would he have taken Orlando from San Jose if he's based down in the middle of nowhere, four hundred miles away?" The man sounded suddenly exhausted. No, not just tired -- empty. As though the thought that this might be yet another dead end had let all the wind out of him.

"That's always possible, My Lord, but even in this day and age, criminal activity requires a certain amount of contact. Power in that community is much more direct and needs constant reinforcement, otherwise the criminals one has hired are likely to make off with one's profits, or even one's entire business. At the same time, it's not _that_ far and being based at a distance gives him an additional measure of security.

"I'll keep a watch on the house. If Csokas shows up, I'll wait until he leaves and see where he goes. If he doesn't leave, I'll see who comes to visit him, and try following _them._ That trusted confederate might be a go-between. Either way, there's most likely _some_ contact between the boss and the business, even if it's through intermediaries. This isn't the sort of thing which runs well via e-mail, in my experience, and that's not even considering the possibility of one's communications being intercepted. Personal contact is more secure, in more ways than one."

"Fine, fine." Neeson muttered something under his breath, then said, "Keep me informed."

"Of course, My Lord."

Neeson hung up without a word of farewell. Thewlis put away his phone and started his car. He needed to make a grocery run, then get back to his chosen watching post, in some scrubby, dried-out underbrush about a quarter mile from Marty's place. He had a feeling he was going to be there for a while.


	21. Chapter 21

Thewlis waited and watched. He'd charmed the night manager of a nearby 7-Eleven (only a quarter mile away, in a tiny strip mall next to another shabby casino) by telling the young man he was a representative of the tabloid media hoping to get photos of a very famous celebrity (whom he could of course not name) who secretly had a house nearby. In exchange for a promise of a couple of prints once he got the pictures, Thewlis negotiated bathroom privileges. Cleaning up in the chipped porcelain sink once every day or so was sub-optimal, but the best he could manage under the circumstances; grunge was a silent and familiar partner when one was alone on stake-out and he hardly noticed it anymore.

Eleven days later, a man wearing a short-sleeved shirt and tie and carrying a briefcase pulled into the driveway, got the mail from the box at the curb, went into the house, stayed only six minutes, then left, still carrying the briefcase. It definitely wasn't Marty. Thewlis followed him to the Silver Oasis, where he parked in a section of lot around the back marked off for employees. Thewlis cruised past and memorized the license plate number.

An hour and a half later he had the man's name, knew that he was the head of security for the casino and that he'd been hired shortly after Marty bought the place. Interesting but not informative.

Thewlis went back to his spot and kept watching the house.

 

Kevin didn't make it into body-slave training the second time around. His age was working against him, and he was "insufficiently sensual" according to the basic trainer's final evaluation. He'd made it in fine before, but maybe the extra youth points back then had made up for the lack of natural sluttiness points, or whatever.

On the one hand, Kevin was happy enough not to be sold to someone as a fuck doll. On the other hand, he was sort of insulted. He told himself he'd get over it. Besides, if his plan worked he wouldn't be with his new owner for very long anyway.

Although he wasn't body-slave material that time around, he was "presentable," which meant he wasn't ugly enough to scare away customers or houseguests. He tested out smart, too, and was good with both words and numbers, so between that and Kevin's faked-up background experience he'd gotten a recommendation for clerical or entry-level admin, with a bonus rec for being cooperative and enthusiastic.

Body-slaves were bought like dogs -- showcased so prospective masters could wander through, grab ass and check teeth, imagine themselves fucking one or another of the bodies on display, and finally point and say "That one." Kevin had unconsciously expected to have to go through that again, but clerical types were purchased based on record, experience, test scores -- the kind of stuff a buyer could look over on the computer. Kevin spent the time while he was listed for sale locked in a barracks room with a bunch of other slaves in the same situation, bored and antsy.

Four days later, one of the staffers hauled him out and shoved him into a small room containing one table, one chair, and one huge Black man who looked him up and down, then pointed to the floor next to where he was sitting and said, "Kneel."

The man had a deep, resonant voice which was pretty obviously used to being obeyed. Kevin walked to the indicated spot as gracefully as he could and sank into a kneel.

The man said, "I'm looking for someone to organize my personal business. Mail and appointments and bills, make sure the house is stocked -- groceries and such -- send out the laundry, that sort of thing. Think you can handle that?"

Kevin said, "Yes, sir." Sort of a secretary or house-manager kind of thing. Boring but perfect. Mail meant access to e-mail.

"I need someone who can keep things running on their own, while I'm seeing to business."

"I--" Kevin paused. He needed to be careful here. This guy obviously wanted someone who could work unsupervised, without being nagged about everything. He'd liked what he'd seen about Kevin's file, but was cautious about the "likes direction" part. Kevin could do what the guy needed, but couldn't go too far outside the persona he'd built for the evaluators. "I think I took on too much, sir," he finally said. "In my previous life, that is. I was overwhelmed and in over my head and didn't know what to do or how to handle it. I've learned better, though, and have a better sense of the scope of my abilities. I'm sure I could handle your personal business."

"Huh. Well, we'll give it a shot, then."

Kevin let himself smile slightly and said, "Thank you, sir." It'd been close, but there were more people wanting slaves than there were slaves to be had, and that'd worked out in Kevin's favor.

He stayed kneeling while the man walked out of the room, until a handler came to fetch him and take him to Escrow. He was there for a day and a half, then went home with his new master, a Mr. Duncan.

Mr. Duncan had Kevin sit in the passenger seat in front, and drove himself. His car was nice and reasonably new but not luxurious. He seemed to be well off but not filthy rich.

Of course there were people who _were_ filthy rich but were just odd about pretending not to be. Kevin didn't think Mr. Duncan was that kind of man, though. He'd met one or two of them and they had a kind of stuck-up shabby thing going on. Mr. Duncan seemed solid and competent, not pretending to be anything he wasn't.

"I own a security company," Mr. Duncan said. He kept his eyes on the road while driving and Kevin was fine with that. "Provide bodyguards for Hollywood stars, politicians, a few business people, folks with enemies or just folks who attract whack-jobs. I've got people to handle stuff for me on that end, though; your job'll be keeping the house running.

"Sometimes I'm there, sometimes I'm not. I don't see any point to having a full staff -- waste of money when I'm gone so much. One person should be able to keep things in shape, sort the mail and pay the bills and all. That's you."

He paused for a few seconds. Kevin wasn't sure whether he was focusing on traffic or expected a response, so to be safe he said, "Yes, sir."

"Your file didn't say whether you can cook. If you can, that's fine. If not, I'm used to ordering in anyway. I've got a cleaning service, comes in once a week. You can make the beds and pick up towels and do dishes. Laundry's sent out."

"I could do that too, sir, if you want." Not that Kevin was turned on by the smell of detergent or anything, but it never hurt to earn a few brownie points.

"That'd be fine," Mr. Duncan agreed. "You ruin anything, though, I'll take my belt to you."

Jerk, thought Kevin. He looked down at his lap and said, "Yes, sir."

"I'm not a tough man to get along with," Mr. Duncan continued, "but I have a low tolerance for bullshit and screw-ups. You do your job, don't make any stupid mistakes, we'll get along fine."

"Yes, sir."

Fine, whatever. Kevin could put up with anything temporarily.

 

The guy from the casino showed up again two weeks later, got the mail, spent five or six minutes in the house, then left.

It was becoming clear to Thewlis that Marty didn't actually live there. Unless he just happened to be on an extended vacation, this was only an address of record and not a place he actually stayed. There was hardly any mail delivered -- junk-fliers on Wednesdays and little else -- no newspapers delivered, no trash nor recycling taken to the curb for pick-up. The landscaping was a stylish mix of native plants and decorative rockery, which needed no mowing or trimming nor even watering. The place was empty and their lead had fizzled. Time to try something else.

 

One afternoon, Mr. Anderson came in and said, "We're going to transfer you to another Commerce office, David. They'll finish your training and find you an owner."

David stood up obediently and followed Mr. Anderson out into the hall. When the man closed the door of David's cell behind them, he must've caught a glimpse of a question on David's face, because he added, "This is only a small office, and most of our sales here are for farm laborers and a few low-level clerks. We can get more for you in a more metropolitan area."

"I see," said David. It did make a certain amount of sense. And he was happy to hear he wouldn't end up doing farm labor. "Thank you, sir."

Mr. Anderson nodded and led him toward the back of the building, stopping at the reception desk on the way to pick up a briefcase and his suit jacket. David had a vague memory of having come in this way, but it was fuzzy, like a long-ago dream.

They drove south through heavy traffic for what felt like a long time. David didn't have a watch but figured it was at least a three-hour drive, maybe more.

It was fully night time when they pulled into the parking lot of the Commerce Processing Center for Santa Ana, according to the large sign out front. Mr. Anderson pulled in around the back and parked in a space right near the rear entrance. The rear lot only had a few cars in it and the front lot had been completely empty. There were a couple of lights visible through windows, but they were small and low, like night-lights or security lights. David had glanced into the front reception area, through the glass window-walls, and it'd been dark and empty.

They got out of the car and Mr. Anderson led David through a small, solid metal door and into a small, bare reception area similar to the one in Bakersfield.

He said, "Hey, Parker," to the man sitting behind the desk. Mr. Parker, a skinny blond man with an impatient look on his face, said, "Anderson," and gave David a quick but penetrating inspection. The sharp gaze was uncomfortable and David had to fight not to shift his weight or fidget.

Mr. Anderson set his briefcase down on the desk and opened it. He took out a file with David's name on it, and a white business-size envelope, and handed both to Mr. Parker.

"All his records," he said. "And paperwork on his debt."

Mr. Parker opened the white envelope first. He didn't take anything out of it, but looked inside, nodded and put it into a desk drawer. Then he looked over the papers in the folder.

After a minute or so, he looked up at David and scowled. "Says here you're a liar, boy. And a troublemaker."

David felt a chill down his spine and he swallowed hard. "I'm sorry, sir. I was...." He felt off-balance and confused. He still couldn't remember much beyond the... month? however long it'd been since he'd been brought to Commerce. He glanced up at Mr. Anderson, then said to Mr. Parker, "I was confused. I can't really remember."

Mr. Parker snorted. "And why should I believe you can't remember? Awfully convenient, that."

David opened his mouth but couldn't think of what to say. He looked at Mr. Anderson again, but the man just looked back at him and offered no assistance. David went to his knees, bowed his head and repeated, "I'm sorry, sir."

"Well. We'll see." He and Mr. Anderson shook hands and Anderson left without a word to David. Mr. Parker made a sharp gesture and David stood up and followed him into the heart of the building.


	22. Chapter 22

Marton parked his car at the top of a cliff about half an hour out of Monterey. A couple slots over was a run-down Ford with a large unrepaired dent which had started to rust. A strong ocean wind moaned through the air, whipping past the distorted Monterey cypresses and howling between the two cars and across the all-but-empty expanse of blacktop. Waves crashed against the rocks below. There was no one else within sight, or at least not visible; it was too cold for anyone else to've been attracted to that particular scenic lookout point. Good enough.

A skinny man with unkempt dark hair and a few days' growth of stubble got out of the dented car. He moved over to Marton's side, looking around and over both shoulders, then said, "So?"

"My part's done," Marton replied. He pulled a flimsy slip of paper with a Commerce seal out of an envelope and showed it to the other man, one finger held strategically over a particular spot. The other man reached out for it, but Marton jerked it up and away. "You don't need to touch it. Just look. It's genuine. So far as the system is concerned, David Grant has been enslaved and his debts absorbed into Commerce's bookkeeping."

The actual David Grant gave him a pouty scowl. "How much did you get?"

Marton tightened his grip on the voucher for a moment, as if ensuring that his finger still covered that blank on the form. "That's none of your concern. I've performed a service and the fee you agreed to pay is now due." He put the voucher back in its envelope and returned it to his jacket's inside pocket.

The ex-Mister Grant took a step back toward his car. "If you've really done it and it's official, what's to stop me from just leaving?"

Marton rolled his eyes, not bothering to hide his scorn. "If you were to do that then I'd have to make sure you don't live much longer, just as a way of protecting my business reputation. It wouldn't even be illegal -- you don't actually exist anymore." Complete bullshit, of course -- a dead body turning up would attract official attention no matter what -- but it was a good line and he'd used it a number of times. The casual, impatient delivery usually sold it.

Grant held up both hands and said, "Hey, no problem, just asking. Bad joke, sorry. I've been kind of stressed, you know?"

"I'm sure you have," Marton said. "So how about if we finish this and move on?"

"Right, fine. Hang on, I'll write you a check." He reached into his coat but stopped when Marton barked out a laugh.

"You're still joking, obviously, if you think I'd take a check from someone who was within a hair's breadth of being enslaved for debt." Marton stopped smiling and stared at him hard. "Cash. As we agreed."

"Right, right, sorry." Grant turned away and popped the trunk of his car. He pulled out a battered briefcase, then took three tries to get the trunk to stay closed. He set the case down on the trunk of Marton's car and popped it open to show messily-bound stacks of cash. "There, fifteen thousand." He looked down and muttered, "Hardly seems fair, you already getting paid for the job."

"You're paying me because I did you a service and you agreed to do so," Marton said. "And because paying five percent of your indebted amount is much better than paying a hundred percent. Besides, it's good for you to get back into the habit of paying what you owe. Repeat customers are charged ten percent."

Grant snorted, and apparently found where his spine had been hiding, because he said, "You're a real ballsy fuck, aren't you?"

"I'm a _rich_ ballsy fuck, who has a lot of friends who aren't afraid to commit illegal acts. I suggest you remember that." Marton closed the briefcase, opened his trunk and tossed it inside. "Speaking of which, if you like I can refer you to some of my friends to create your new identity. Unless you have someone in mind already?"

"Huh? What new identity?"

Marton sighed. "Obviously you can't be David Grant anymore. David Grant has been sucked up into Commerce and is even now being taught to kneel, walk on a leash, and enthusiastically suck on anything stuffed into his mouth. If any activity shows up under his name, if you get a job or pay taxes or apply for a marriage license or _anything_ which comes to the government's attention, they'll notice the discrepancy and be right back after you."

"What?!" Grant stared, then snarled, "You never told me that!"

"No, you're right, I'm sorry. I just assumed you had an ounce or two of brains in your head and could figure it out for yourself."

"You fucker!" Grant came at him swinging. Marton dodged easily, and a punch in the nose sent Grant sprawling on the pavement.

"It's not my fault you're an idiot," Marton said. "Although you might want to work on that once you have your new identity, or you'll just find yourself in the same mess again." He moved around to the driver's side of his own car and opened the door, then added, "Or maybe you'd be better off as a slave after all, with other people telling you what to do, keeping you from screwing up your life. Some people are just better off that way. I guess you'll know within the next few years whether you're one of them." He waved, then got in his car and backed out.

Grant scuttled back, even though he was a good five feet away from Marton's path. Whatever. The man was clearly a moron and would probably end up in a collar eventually, just from his own bad judgement. Hell, he'd probably kept his house, despite Marton's advice when they'd first made the arrangements to find a substitute for Grant. He could've sold it before and stashed the cash, but once the new Grant had been processed into Commerce, the government owned all his property of record. Trying to sell it after that point would ring every siren in the place. Same with his car; that was the same one he'd been driving when he'd made contact a long five months earlier.

Idiot.

It wasn't Marton's problem, though. He had Grant's fifteen grand, and within a couple of weeks, when Grant's debts were settled by Commerce, the Silver Oasis would be "repaid" the one-point-two-mil he'd faked up in paper. Grant's fee was pocket change, but it was the principle of the thing. And besides, all those five percent fees had added up to a nice pile.

A couple more weeks and he'd be on a beach, drinking something out of a hurricane glass, with clever hands of _both_ genders rubbing tanning oil into his skin. Almost there.

 

Liam slammed into Johnny one last time and then collapsed on top of him in a boneless sprawl. Johnny lay still beneath him for the minute or so it took Liam to get his brain functioning, then his nervous system, then his arms and legs. He rolled off into another sprawl, this one face up on the mattress, his eyes closed and his breath still short.

He felt the mattress shift and heard Johnny moving quietly toward the bathroom.

So normal and so not. The immediate tension was gone from his body but the stress deeper inside still coiled and twisted.

It'd been over a month and he'd honestly expected to have gotten over it by now. Not completely, no; there'd always be some sadness, some loss. Like when his father had died, or his first dog. But instead it was _all_ still there -- the sense that something was missing, the feeling of emptiness even in a house full of staff, the lack of real satisfaction having sex with anyone else -- even Johnny, who'd pleased him very well before Orlando'd first come to his bed.

Johnny still pleased him of course, but it wasn't the same.

He couldn't help remembering the last time he'd almost lost Orlando, when he'd almost convinced himself that selling the boy was the right thing to do. The logic still held -- he could see that as well as he ever had -- but logic hadn't been a part of it when he'd decided to keep him after all. It'd been all about raw need and no, that _wasn't_ healthy, but he hadn't been able to bear even the thought of it, when it'd come time to go ahead or go home.

And yet even then it'd seemed like it was the initial pain of the losing that he couldn't stand, rather than the longer-term loss. He hadn't been able to make himself yank off the bandage, and he'd been ashamed but he couldn't help it. And he'd been sure that if only he _had_ found the courage to get through that initial ripping pain, that it would have faded and healed in time.

You lost people, you just did, that was how the world worked. He'd lost his grandparents, and his parents, and an aunt and two uncles. He'd lost dogs and horses he'd loved, in the way one loves dogs and horses. And he'd lost the person he'd believed Natasha had been; finding out that he'd been mistaken about that was just as much of a loss as if she'd died, in a way.

He'd lost people and grieved and gotten over it and gone on. It was what one _did._

And slaves -- people weren't supposed to become attached to _slaves._ Certainly no more than one became attached to dogs or horses. And he never had, never before.

But it had been a month and there was still a hole in his life where Orlando had perfectly fit, and there shouldn't be. Not after all this time.

Johnny glided back into the room, cleaned Liam off with a warm washcloth and tossed it into a hamper. Then he went down on his knees beside the bed, bowed his head and said, "Master?"

"Yes?" Liam glanced over at him and wondered what had come up.

"Master, I beg your forgiveness for any impertinence, but it's my duty to look out for your business interests and I feel I have to ask -- have you considered searching for a new body-slave yet?"

Liam sat bolt upright on the bed, any relaxation the sex might've left gone from his body. "What the fuck brought that up?" he snarled. "And yes, that is damned impertinent."

Johnny ducked down to press his forehead to the carpet. "I apologize, Master. But the deadline is in three weeks, and it takes time to find someone suitable and negotiate a purchase. You need someone to serve you--"

"I have you," snapped Liam. "And despite this current wave of insanity -- for which you _will_ be thrashed, by the way -- you do an adequate job of serving my needs."

"Master, I'm sorry," said Johnny again, his voice muffled by being pressed even further into the carpet, "but I'm scheduled to go to Baltimore next week, and then straight to Paris. I'll be gone for at least ten days. Unless you've decided to cancel my trip?"

"No."

"Then you'll be alone for that time. It's not right. You need someone to care for you, and you need someone to assist you with the business on this end. I've been travelling for you for almost fifteen years and you seemed happy with how things have been arranged. If you prefer to go back to doing business over the phone, or online, or travelling yourself, then arrangements need to be made. I can't do both, though. I'm sorry, Master, I wish I could."

"I... fuck."

"Also," Johnny said, his voice tense, "it's not right for me to be your body-slave on social occasions. I'm forty-five, Master. I'm too old to do you credit."

"You're still gorgeous and you know it."

"Thank you, Master, but that's not the point. Other people will talk and make disrespectful remarks. It could hurt you in negotiations."

It could make you look weak. Johnny hadn't said so, of course, but it was what he meant. There's Neeson, a bit of early dementia there, can't get over the loss of a slave, hah! What a pity. Pathetic. Obviously lost his edge.

He could show the whole fucking lot of them that he hadn't lost anything (except one gorgeous boy, a little voice whispered) but swimming with the sharks meant persuading them not to mob you, meant maintaining the reputation of being too tough to take down. If they all tried it, or even just a barely strong enough alliance, it _could_ hurt him. He couldn't afford to look weak, to show any kind of breach in his defenses. Liam knew he had a reputation as a hard-ass and it'd served him well enough for the last four decades; he'd gotten used to operating that way. He needed to maintain it.

The overheard conversation from the At Bay dinner flashed into his mind. Everyone knew how highly he valued Orlando, how rarely he let anyone else touch him. Everyone _knew,_ and there must've been some suspicions that maybe he was more attached than was usual all along. Hell, Tasha'd mentioned it too, that people had talked about him, although he'd assumed at the time that she was just sniping, throwing any weapon she could come up with.

He'd always had enough power to ward off the sniping, force it to stay under cover. But if he made a spectacle of himself...?

Fuck.

Liam swung his legs over the side of the bed, barely missing cracking Johnny's head with a heel. Johnny didn't move, of course, although Liam could see the muscles in his shoulders tense up. He reached for his pajama bottoms, just because it was undignified to administer actual punishment while naked, and said, "Go fetch me a flogger."

Johnny said, "Yes, Master," and rose gracefully before heading into the dressing room. Just because he was right didn't mean he hadn't been impertinent _and_ presumptuous.


	23. Chapter 23

David had a headache and felt like he was about to vomit.

He shuffled along in line with a bunch of other slaves, some old and some young, some calm and some panicking, some beautiful and some who definitely weren't going to end up as body-slaves. On either side of the line there were staffers, guards, handlers -- whatever they were -- scowling at all the confused slaves. They dealt with any behavior they disapproved of quickly, using electrified batons.

Behavior they disapproved of included not moving, moving too fast, moving in the wrong direction, staying silent when spoken to, speaking when not addressed, and yelling or screaming no matter what. Minor infractions got a poke, which delivered a quick shock. It was painful but didn't do any lasting damage, which David learned when the slaves ahead of him held up the line and he got shocked along with them when the guards got things moving again.

At first David had just thought his sick headache was from hunger; he hadn't had any dinner and the meal before it had been... well, a while before, and it'd only been a muffin and a banana. He'd been stuck in a tiny cell after his transfer and left all night, then rousted out in the morning and shoved in with the other new slaves, groggy and frightened and disoriented, with a tiny pin memory on a chain locked around his neck. His first stop had been a station where a Commerce employee -- who looked dull and zoned out, and did his job with zombie-like boredom even first thing in the morning -- took the pin off him and slotted it into his desk unit.

Data scrolled up a tiny screen, too quickly for David to read, but no one asked him to so it didn't matter. The unit hummed, then spat out a small chip, about the size of his fingernail, into a slot. The Commerce drone inserted the chip into some kind of hand unit while one of the staffers with a baton tapped him on the arm.

David flinched back, turning away from the shock. The drone shoved on his other shoulder to keep him rotating until David was looking completely the other way, then pressed the hand unit against his back, right next to his spine at shoulderblade level. David felt something else sting him, then felt his chip burrow under his skin with a sharp, sliding pierce. It sat there stinging and itching. He tried to reach for it out of reflex and got another poke with a wand, even though he couldn't get his hands anywhere near the spot.

The next station, after another wait in the slow-moving line, had a fat pillar with straps bolted to it next to a work table loaded with smoking metal cannisters. David caught a bare glimpse of a long-handled implement with a smaller rendition of the Commerce seal on the end before he was pressed up against the pillar, with his face in a padded depression. He couldn't breathe and tried to struggle, but a padded shell of some kind clicked into place around the back of his head to hold his head still. His wrists were strapped into thick cuffs around the other side of the pillar, so he was hugging it, and two flat straps were fastened around him at shoulder and rib level. It was all done in just a few seconds by multiple sets of hands.

He couldn't get a breath to yell, couldn't fight or struggle. His legs were free to kick, but his upper body was so secure that it stayed still; all his kicking got him was a more prolonged shock. Just as he was sure he was about to black out, he felt something searing cold pressed against the right side of his neck. It held there forever while his heart slammed to escape his chest and his flesh melted around it, then it pulled away. The pressure was gone but the frozen burn remained.

The straps loosened and two sets of arms hauled him away from the pillar and gave him a shove forward, to the back of yet another line. He tried to raise his hand to his neck out of reflex, but every time his hands got above his waist he was shocked, and he quickly learned not to do that. He was gasping for air, dizzy and hurting and disoriented and he fell to his knees on the concrete floor. Half a dozen more baton shocks got him back onto his feet again.

The slaves in this line were all leaning on one another. Most were sobbing in pain, or gasping as they tried not to. There were at least a dozen wet-stained splotches on the concrete around the end of the line where slaves who'd just been branded had vomited and then cleaned it up; David saw one spew his guts a few places behind him, then have a bucket and cloth shoved into his hands.

He considered letting his own stomach go; at least he'd get a few minutes of kneeling down without being shocked for it.

Some time later, his line wound past a station where another Commerce staff person swiped a layer of some cool, stinky lotion or ointment or something onto his neck with a spongy instrument. It looked kind of like the sponge-type paint applicators he'd seen... where? On television, maybe?

Another slow, shuffling wait, with only two people vomiting along the way, and he was directed to strip and drop his clothes into barrels. Shoes, socks, pants, shirt, briefs... he skipped the undershirt barrel because he wasn't wearing one. He skipped the belt, purse, jewelry and miscellaneous accessories barrels too. Everyone else seemed to have more things on them than he did, to be wearing watches or rings or earrings, to have brought along a wallet or a cell phone, pictures or keys. Everything went into the barrels.

He was handed a pair of cheap elastic-waisted shorts and a plain T-shirt, both in bright red, both stamped with the Commerce seal in black, with "SLAVE" curved over the top; the T-shirt had the seal across his chest and the shorts across his butt. There was no question what he was, coming or going, and even if he was stupid enough to try to escape, he'd attract attention wherever he went -- either from wearing bright red clothes that said he was a slave, or from being naked.

Slaves who needed medication were split off into another line. David didn't, so he stayed in the main line.

The next station was food. David got a thick slice of crusty bread spread with something that looked like it was trying to pretend it was butter, along with two apples and a pint of milk. He was pushed along into a bare room, at which point the line dissipated. Most of the slaves were leaning against a wall or sitting on the floor to eat; he crossed his feet and lowered himself down to sit.

The bread was decent, although his mother's was better. He ate carefully at first, afraid it might come right back up again. By the time he was about halfway through, in slow, carefully chewed bites, his stomach felt a little less chaotic. He finished the bread, then opened the carton of milk and took a slug before biting into an apple. It was past its prime, mealy and not very sweet, but it was edible and he discovered he was hungry.

By the time he finished, he wasn't full but he wasn't hungry anymore either. His stomach felt kind of delicate but not actively roiling. That was an improvement and he was willing to live with it. It looked like part of his sick _had_ been hunger.   
His head still ached. He wished he dared ask for something to take for it, but he knew instinctively that that'd be an incredibly bad idea.

A few minutes after he'd finished, a staff-guard-whatever came by and tapped him on the shoulder, then pointed with her baton to another door, this one with a huge trash barrel next to it. David climbed up to his feet and headed over to it, dumped his trash and passed on through. On the other side of the door was another line.

 

Mr. Duncan wasn't actually an awful owner, as owners went. At least not yet. He fed Kevin the same meals he ate himself when he was home, and let Kevin raid the fridge when he wasn't. The alcohol was off limits, but that wasn't exactly unusual, and that soon after being bought, Kevin wasn't stupid enough to try to sneak any.

His new owner didn't try for sex, either. Of course, he wasn't supposed to, but Kevin knew that didn't always stop them, so having an owner who followed the rules was good.

The work wasn't hard, either. Once he learned where everything was and how Mr. Duncan wanted things done, Kevin could finish his work, the secretary type stuff and the chores both, by early afternoon. He waited a few days, just in case there were any gotchas lurking around, then, after one of the most boring weeks he'd ever dragged himself through, he decided to get to work on contacting that Lord Neeson guy.

Kevin spent another four days' worth of leisure time searching for one of the free-anon e-mail sites. He found a fresh one, and created an account. The feds stomped on those sites as soon as they found them and there was no telling how long this one would last; Kevin could only hope it'd be around long enough for him to get his business done. If not, he'd find another one and continue, hoping his Lordship was smart enough to catch on when some new mail ID wrote to him and picked up their conversation.

 _Dear Lord Neeson,_ [no sense not being polite, at least to start]

_I'm a slave who was stolen. While I was held by the thief, I met another stolen slave who said he belonged to you. He said his name was Orlando, and that you'd want him back. If he was telling the truth and you do, write back and we can talk about terms._

He thought about it for a few minutes, then signed it,

_Ben_

Heck, he wasn't allowed to use that name anymore, so it'd make as good an alias as any.

He read it over again, fixed a couple of typos just because, then hit the SEND button.

Now to find something to do to keep himself from checking his remote mailbox every five minutes.


	24. Chapter 24

"There's Father Serra!" Jamie knelt up on the seat, careful not to kick his daddy, and plastered his face against the car window as it rounded a curve of the highway and passed the kneeling statue, one long arm and pointing finger extended. The sun was almost down and it was too dark to really see anything clearly, but Jamie had seen it a bunch of times before and knew what it looked like anyway. It was cool, the huge statue up in the hills, by the side of the freeway in the middle of nowhere. Just hills, trees, grass, trees, bushes, trees, then bam! Statue! Then more trees and stuff.

"Tell us again about the time you gave him a helmet and a football!" he asked, bouncing with eagerness. He remembered that too, the story about how when his daddy was at Stanford, they'd made a huge football helmet in red and white, 'cause those were Stanford's colors, and an even huger football, and put the helmet on the statue's head and put the football under the statue's finger, like it was holding the ball for some giant to kick. He liked it when Daddy told it, though.

His father gave him a look and said, "Say 'please.'"

Paula, on Daddy's other side, just rolled her eyes at him and went back to her book. Jamie ignored her; she was always trying to pretend she was so much smarter and cooler than he was, but she was just a brat.

"Please?" Jamie bounced a few more times, but slid back down to the seat, twisted around to watch his daddy. He seemed upset about something and Jamie didn't know what it was. He hadn't been all that interested in what he and Paula had been doing in school, or what Jamie wanted to get Mommy for Christmas, or anything. He'd pretended to listen but it wasn't the same. Jamie was eight -- he wasn't a stupid little kid anymore. He could tell when people were pretending around him.

He'd tried to think of all the stuff he'd done since last time he'd seen his daddy. There'd been all that blue paint he'd spilled on Mrs. Taylor's classroom floor. She'd been pretty mad, but it'd been an accident and the slaves had been able to clean it all up so you couldn't even tell. And he'd kicked over Maddy's juice at lunch a couple of weeks ago, but she'd been saying nasty things about a picture Jamie'd drawn so she deserved it. Although he wasn't sure if his daddy would agree. Mr. Kitchener hadn't, even though Jamie had explained. Maybe that was what Daddy was mad about?

Except he didn't seem _mad._ Not really. More sad. Maybe he was sad because Jamie'd been bad? Except he hadn't been _that_ bad.

Maybe telling about the time they'd made the statue a football player would cheer him up. He'd always had fun when he told it before.

Daddy smiled at him and gave him a hug with one arm, and even if he didn't seem as happy as he usually was when it was the first day of their vacation together, Jamie was feeling a little better.

Paula was sighing loudly at both of them and Jamie was saying, "Pleasepleaseplease!" some more when his daddy's phone went off, in the bzz-bzz, bzz-bzz code that meant Johnny had sent him something he had to look at right away. He held up one hand to Jamie and pulled out the phone to check his e-mail.

Jamie sighed and looked out the window again. Business sucked. His mom and daddy both spent too much time doing boring stuff, even when it was supposed to be vacation.

But then Daddy straightened up like someone had poked him hard, and said a really bad cuss word. (Which was one of the best parts about growing up, in Jamie's opinion -- being able to cuss if you wanted without getting smacked or yelled at for it.)

Daddy punched keys really fast for a while, then sent his mail, then did it again and sent another mail, then another one. By the time he was done it was too dark to see _anything_ outside except lit-up signs and stuff and they were close to home.

He put away his phone and looked at Jamie, then at Paula, then said, "I have something to tell you both before we get home." He paused a moment and Jamie wondered what it could be, because it sounded pretty bad. Maybe whatever Daddy'd been upset about?

"About a month and a half ago, someone stole Orlando. I've been trying very hard to find him, and I hired someone to help me, but we haven't been able to find him yet. I'm _going_ to get him back, though."

Jamie was still trying to figure out how you could steal a someone. Usually it was _things_ that got stolen. Slaves were sort of like things, because they belonged to people, but they weren't really. But then Paula gave another loud sigh and said, "Are you still fussing about that? Mommy told me ages ago. I don't know why you haven't just gotten over it and bought another one."

Daddy's head jerked around to look at her and Jamie shrank back as far as he could get into the corner of the seat. Even the _back_ of Daddy's head was glaring. He was sure Paula was going to get yelled at good and maybe smacked, but Daddy just said, very quietly, "It's not a good idea to repeat what your mother says when you don't understand what's going on."

And he was right, because thinking about it, Paula _had_ sounded exactly like Mom when she said that. She was just copying Mom, trying to make them think she was all grown up again.

Jamie couldn't see Paula from where he was, just her legs shifting. She whined, "He's just a slave! He's nice and all but you're not _supposed_ to have slaves forever! Not body-slaves, anyway! You get one and you play with him for a while and then you sell him and get a new one. You're _supposed_ to!" By the end she was almost yelling and Jamie ducked down again, afraid Paula was going to get a spanking right there in the car.

Instead, Daddy just looked at her for a little while, then said, "I'm sorry, baby," and pulled her into his lap. She started crying and he rocked her and rubbed her back all the rest of the way home.

When Javier pulled up the long driveway and parked the car, Jamie looked at the big house and it really hit him that Orlando wasn't there, that Orlando wouldn't come out to get their suitcases, wouldn't listen to what they'd been doing and what they wanted for Christmas, wouldn't be there to play with them.

Johnny and Samantha came out to get baggage and bundle them all into the house, with Daddy still carrying Paula. Jamie felt kind of like crying himself, but he didn't because he was a boy and boys don't cry, at least not out in front of everybody.

Samantha took Jamie's jacket and told him they were having fried chicken for dinner, and that there was mint-chocolate ice cream for dessert, then went away. Johnny'd gone to take their suitcases to their rooms, and Daddy had taken Paula upstairs. The sounds of the house were familiar -- footsteps and quiet voices. If he walked up the hall he'd hear kitchen sounds, making-dinner sounds.

This time, the just-gotten-home-from-school time, was when Orlando would come and listen to what he'd been doing for all the months since he'd been home, and play with him or find something fun for them to do. Jamie didn't know what to do, though, by himself. Johnny would be unpacking -- and that was usually Orlando's job too, something he'd do while listening to Jamie -- and putting things away in his room and he didn't feel like going up there yet.

He wandered into the big living room. The Christmas tree was already up. It was huge -- twice as tall as his daddy even -- and had a million ornaments and lights and stuff on it. It already had some presents under it, too.

Jamie went over and looked at the presents. He didn't touch anything, but he read the name tags. There were some things for Daddy in different kinds of wrapping paper, with names Jamie didn't know. Probably people he worked with. A few presents from neighbors, including a couple of presents each for him and Paula. They were just box-shaped, though, and he couldn't tell what they were. He knew better than to pick one up, to shake it or even see what it weighed.

He ran out of presents to look at and he knew all the ornaments. Most of them were just colored balls but there were some like little toys or dolls -- birds and bells and snowmen and angels and tiny stockings and drums and horns and stars and snowflakes and a bunch of other ones they'd had all his life.

Boring. Jamie didn't know what he wanted to do. He felt like running or yelling or crying but he couldn't do any of those things, so he went over to the couch and curled up in one corner. He stared at the tree but didn't really see it.

He didn't even notice when his daddy came into the room and sat down next to him.

"She'll be all right," he said. "She'll probably skip dinner, have a good sleep tonight, and be fine in the morning."

"Whatever," Jamie said. "It's not like she really cares about Orlando. She just didn't want to get yelled at so she started crying."

He felt his daddy shift next to him and Jamie looked up, suddenly worried that maybe he'd gone too far, grumped a little too much. But Daddy didn't look mad at him, just sad and tired.

"It's not Orlando," he said. "You're right, she doesn't know him as well as you do and she doesn't miss him as much. But do you remember Shane?"

Of course he did. "That was Mom's second-to-last old body-slave. I liked him. He was pretty cool."

"He was a nice boy," his daddy agreed. "Paula knew him a lot better than you did, though. She lived with your mother for most of last summer, remember? Shane was there and Paula liked him a lot."

 _"Liked_ him, liked him?" Jamie asked, ready to jeer. Because, yuck.

"No, not like that." His daddy poked him in the ribs. It tickled, but only for a second. "But he was a good friend. They talked a lot, and played together, and he took her places when your mother was busy -- the zoo and museums and shopping. They were good friends, best friends maybe. And then he left."

"Then Mom sold him," Jamie said. It wasn't correcting, not _quite._ "So she should know how you feel! How _we_ feel, because Orlando's gone! Why was she so snotty about it, then, in the car?"

Daddy sighed and pushed a hand through his hair. He always did that when he was trying to figure out something hard. He finally said, "You know your mother and I don't always think the same way about slaves."

"About body-slaves," Jamie said, nodding. He was pretty sure it was just body-slaves. They treated the others the same.

"Right, about body-slaves. I've had Orlando since he was born, you know that. Johnny was my body-slave before, then when he was old enough it was Orlando. He's done that job for a long time."

"Mom thinks too long?" Jamie was careful about that. His parents were mostly careful about not letting him and Paula be disrespectful of them, although Mom didn't mind sometimes if you said something she'd said herself, like Paula had in the car. He didn't _think_ saying that Mom thought Daddy'd had Orlando for too long was disrespectful. It was true, and he couldn't think of a nicer way to say it.

"Yes, she thinks I've had him too long. But that's not what I meant. Your mother doesn't keep her own body-slaves for very long. She thinks they're just like other slaves, that you shouldn't really get attached to them the way you would with a person. She's not really _wrong_ \-- a lot of people agree with her. And it makes things hard later on, if you become attached."

Jamie frowned and nodded, even though he wasn't really sure what his daddy was trying to say. It made sense that it'd be hard if you liked a body-slave a lot and then he got sold. But it'd have to be someone else's body-slave, because no one could make you sell your own slave, unless you lost all your money or something.

"Think about Paula," Daddy said. "She liked Shane very much. He was her best friend all summer. And then he was sold and he left and she'll never see him again. She was very sad, but your mother scolded her and told her that she shouldn't have let herself get attached to him, and that it was a good lesson. So Paula tried very hard to forget about Shane, and not let herself be sad anymore."

"So... it didn't work?" Jamie was still kind of confused. He could see how it would've sucked for Paula, though. She'd never mentioned it, but he remembered she'd been kind of quiet and touchy when they'd gone back to school that year.

"It... sort of worked." Daddy held up one hand and tilted it back and forth. "She got good at pretending she didn't care. She worked hard at it, and probably cried sometimes by herself, but she got good at pretending it didn't hurt anymore, maybe even pretending she'd never really liked him that much. Then she was in the car tonight and heard about how I'd lost _my_ slave, someone I'd gotten attached to, and that I was going to get him back, that I was searching and hiring people to get him back."   
"That's not fair," Jamie said immediately. He might not always understand things grown-ups thought were important, but he knew when something wasn't fair. All kids did.

"No, it's not. I get to go hunt for my slave and get him back, but she doesn't get to hunt for Shane. She isn't even allowed to admit she misses him. It's not fair and she got mad, and then she got sad about it again, because she couldn't pretend anymore that she didn't care he was gone."

"But she still doesn't care about Orlando."

"No, she probably doesn't. She doesn't know him like we do."

"So... it's all right to miss him?"

His daddy laughed, but it wasn't a happy laugh. He pulled Jamie over for a hug. Jamie hugged him back, then climbed into his lap. He was too big to get in his daddy's lap, but there wasn't anyone around to see. He felt the tears he'd wanted to cry earlier coming back.

"I do miss him. He's supposed to be here. What happened?"

"I don't know, kiddo. Someone stole him. I'm trying my best to get him back, and I think I have a big clue now."

Jamie sniffled and said, "What?" without taking his head off his daddy's chest.

"I got an e-mail from someone who says he's seen Orlando. Another slave who was stolen too. He wants me to help him, if he tells me about where he saw Orlando and what happened to them."

"Help him what?"

"I don't know, he didn't say. I wrote back to him saying I wanted to talk. I hope he'll tell me what he wants."

"You'll do it, right?"

"Of course. If I can."

That didn't sound very good to Jamie. That sounded like what adults said when they didn't think they could but wanted to keep you from whining about it for a while. "You have to," he said. "You can give him whatever he wants, right?"

"I don't know what he wants, Jamie. I'm sorry. I want Orlando back more than you do, and I want to promise I'll move the whole world to do it. But it's been a long time. I don't even know how long ago this other slave saw him. I'm not going to lie to you and promise it'll be all right. You're a big boy now and you understand that sometimes we can't have what we want, no matter how much we want it. If this other slave wants something I can give, something I can get, something I can help him with without breaking the law, then I'll do it. But he might want something I just can't do. We have to wait and see what he says."

Waiting sucked. Jamie hated waiting, and hated not knowing if there was even anything to wait for. It was worse than waiting for Christmas, because at least you _knew_ Christmas was going to come, even if it took a long time.

He remembered Orlando riding him piggy-back, and helping him with his reading, and playing Batman and Robin with him, and taking him galloping on a horse back when he'd been too little to do it by himself. The tears fell. Jamie kept his face buried in his daddy's shirt and hoped no one would see him crying.


	25. Chapter 25

Before yesterday, Liam had been looking forward to his meeting at the Commerce office with a grim sort of anticipation, but now it was just an annoyance -- something to take up a block of his time when he wouldn't be able to check his e-mail.

It was ridiculous, really. Johnny was monitoring his account even more diligently than usual, and this was important too; there were larger issues at stake than one missing slave, much as it made Liam's jaw clench to think about it that way.

If it was really that easy to pull a slave out of the system with a slash of a blade and some fishing around with a tweezer -- and Liam was sure there were plenty of slaves who'd be willing to grit their teeth and put up with the pain for a minute if that's what it took to be able to run away and not have commerce's agents after them with GPS units -- that was a catastrophic hole in the system. If the news spread, there'd be hordes of slaves escaping and trying to disappear into the underground economy. Aside from the chaos of vanishing workers and tasks undone and businesses losing money, the slaves themselves would be soft targets for anyone looking to exploit them. He'd seen for himself what happened to slaves who fell into the hands of unregulated owners and it was a horrible life, however short it might be.

Commerce had to be made aware of what was going on so they could do something about it.

Half an hour later, though, in the utilitarian but not shabby office of Stanley Parkinson, the Regional Director of the Department of Commerce, after having explained what was going on to said director, the man just looked at him and said, "Thank you, Lord Neeson, but we're aware of the problem."

Liam stared at him for a moment, then narrowed his eyes. "So why haven't you done anything, then? Have you any idea what's being done to these slaves? They're not all runaways, did you know _that?"_

Parkinson's expression didn't change. He looked straight back at Liam and said, "Contrary to what you seem to believe, Lord Neeson, we're not stupid. We've been working on a solution for some time, and have been testing it on our own in-house slaves. We should be ready to implement it in the population at large within the month. Making any kind of announcement beforetimes, however, would be fatally stupid, for the exact reasons you've just finished enumerating.

"We don't want to give any of them ideas, Lord Neeson. Not the slaves themselves, nor anyone who might be tempted to liberate them if someone gave them a hint about a method that might work. We have no obligation to inform the peerage in general, nor you in particular, of our plans. Begging Your Lordship's pardon."

He was begging no such thing. He knew it and Liam knew it. Commerce was not and never had been impressed by titles or money or anyone's power except their own.

Liam leaned back slightly, not wanting to appear overbearing or agressive. Despite how he might be feeling, he knew that wouldn't work with these people. "Would it be possible for you to tell me what you have planned?"

Apparently he was sufficiently non-agressive, because Parkinson said, "In confidence. You know the other, and obviously understand why it shouldn't be spread around. So yes. We've upgraded the chip, as well as the implantation procedure. Chips will be inserted inside a bone in the torso, into the marrow. The insertion procedure will be slightly more time-consuming, but it will take significant surgery to remove them. The chips are also designed to be longer, with a weak spot in the center. If it breaks, which it has over eighty-three percent of the time in testing when removed, the chip will send out a short signal burst which will activate the GPS tracking on that unit immediately."

Huh. Liam tried to think of any loopholes or weak spots in the scheme, but couldn't come up with anything. "That sounds secure enough," he said finally. "You said you'll be ready to implement that within a month?"

"Approximately. We're still working on the insertion unit. Even once it's perfected and is standard procedure on new slaves, it'll take a number of years, and perhaps decades to get through the currently existing slave population. Privately owned slaves will be first up, since they're the most likely to go missing."

Liam nodded approval. "Good."

He sat up a bit straighter and changed the subject. "Speaking of which, what is Commerce doing about the theft problem?"

Parkinson tilted his head, still neither smiling nor frowning. "The new chips will take care of that."

Liam felt his jaw tighten once more. "Yes, they should. But there's still the question of differentiating between stolen slaves and runaways."

"Investigating each and every case of a slave's vanishing is neither cost-effective nor necessary. Treating them all the same provides incentive for slaves to be extra careful not to be 'stolen.'"

"My body-slave--"

"You don't currently _have_ a body-slave, Lord Neeson." Parkinson stood up and walked over to open the office door. "I suggest you browse through the display corridor while you're here; maybe something will interest you. If you have time, of course. If you're in a hurry, then there's always another day."

And that... was as curt and friendly a dismissal as Liam had ever been handed. He stood, nodded to the man and left the office.

He had to restrain himself from punching a hole in a random wall on the way out. Good news about the new chip -- that should help protect slaves, and with any luck would shut down whatever theft rings might be out there for good. But they weren't budging on the issue of runaways who were no such thing, which meant... what? What for Orlando? What if they found him? Should they even keep searching for him? If he hadn't turned up yet, then he was somewhere safe from Commerce, at least.

He might well be in some underground club where they'd butcher him for entertainment. That had been his overwhelming fear ever since he and Thewlis had gone out that night and the thought of Orlando being someplace like _that_ was enough to twist Liam's guts. But if that was what had happened to him then it likely had happened already. Face facts, he told himself. It's been too long. If he was taken by someone who counted him disposable, then he's likely been disposed of already.

Wherever he was after all this time, if he was alive then maybe he was safe somewhere. Maybe not _safe_ safe, maybe not in a good place, where he'd be happy and well cared for, but if he was alive then likely he was with someone who had some interest in _keeping_ him alive.

That would be better than letting Commerce find him. They'd brand him a runaway -- maybe literally, who the fuck knew, since no one ever actually _saw_ runaways again -- and send him to the asteroid mines or to be a rat in a drug lab or cleaning up toxic waste or whatever other horrific job they could find where he'd be worked to death or have the flesh melted off his bones.

The only thing he knew for sure was that if Orlando was found again, Commerce wouldn't be handing him back to Liam. And if he found Orlando first they'd just confiscate him and the end result would be the same.

He slammed out the front door and strode over to the patron's lot, where Javier was waiting with the car. He settled into the back, said "Home" to the driver, and stared out the window, his eyes unfocused and his heart clenching in his chest, compacting down to a tight, painful rock.

He'd never thought about it before. Never considered having to make this decision. Never _wanted_ to consider it. Whenever this issue had drifted into his conscious mind, he'd chased it away with other, more immediate matters. Something would turn up, some issue, some change, some factor they hadn't thought of yet. It would work out, he _would_ get his boy back.

But that might not happen and he was finally staring squarely at the possibility. You didn't argue with Commerce. There was no convincing, no pressuring, no leveraging that worked against Commerce once they'd made up their mind to something. Parkinson had made it clear that there was absolutely no hope of arguing about Orlando's status as stolen property rather than a runaway. Persisting in the face of his so-polite shutting down of the topic would only draw more attention to Orlando, if he was ever found. Leaving an annoyed Commerce director with a grudge against Liam, no matter how minor, which could be taken out on Orlando if he was found was unthinkable, as well as pointless. Liam was sure that even in the dead-end of guaranteed-fatal jobs assigned to runaways, the worst of criminals, the useless and the plain unlucky, there were greater or lesser degrees of horror; he wouldn't do anything to encourage Orlando's placement in one of the greater.

Which left him with the fact that he couldn't protect his boy. That if Orlando was found, he wouldn't be _allowed_ to protect him. That, therefore, it might be the best thing for Orlando never to be found.

Liam stifled an angry groan and leaned his head against the back of the seat. Just as he closed his eyes in a ridiculous attempt to shut out the images taunting him, he felt the familiar bzz-bzz, bzz-bzz coming from his phone. Liam grabbed it and checked the message.

E-mail from Ben.

 

The new slaves had gone bare-necked for the first few days, while their freeze brands healed. Every morning before breakfast, they lined up and passed by three stations.

The first swiped some sort of cleanser over the branded area. It took off the layer of lotion from the previous day.

The second swiped them with something that _had_ to be an antiseptic; it burned like acid and David had to grab the table to keep from falling when the pain hit. The staffer there didn't seem to mind so long as he straighted up and moved on within a second or two.

The third was a fresh application of lotion. It didn't stop the pain any, just sealed it in, or at least that's what it felt like.

All the swipes were done with the same kind of sponge-on-a-handle that'd been used the first day. Everyone working the stations was perfectly efficient, perfectly impersonal.

After having their wounds "tended," they got breakfast. A few of the slaves didn't want to eat, but pokes from the shock batons convinced them to at least try.

On the fifth day, though, after the antiseptic swipe, the third table held a heavy wire rack full of collars. They were the cheapest metal collars available, the kind Commerce kept on all its slaves -- lengths of sturdy chain, the twisted kind that would lay sort of flat. Each chain hung by the link at one end on the wire rack; on its other end, a small, open padlock was looped through the bottom link.

The staffer grabbed a collar, wrapped it around the neck of the next slave in line, sized it by deciding by eye which link on the loose end to thread the lock through, then clicked it shut. That was it, next slave. They didn't bother clipping off the dangling links; David's collar had eight of them.

At least his headaches had gone away. He still felt nauseated sometimes, but it wasn't as often or as bad. He took more notice of what was going on around him; the staffers became individual people rather than identical drones in uniform. Or maybe "people" wasn't the right word, considering how they treated the slaves like cattle, but at least he could tell them apart, could notice that the thin woman with greying hair who worked the lotion station that morning was the same one who plopped a cheese sandwich on his tray at lunch.

The dark man with a paunch who jabbed his baton at the dawdling slave ahead of David on the way in to get their dinner, then shocking everyone within reach to get the line moving again, was the same one who pulled two of the slaves in David's dormitory off of him in the middle of the night.

They'd crept over to David's cot, one pressing a hand over his mouth and holding his arms while the other yanked off the thin blanket -- all that covered the naked slaves while sleeping -- and wedged his legs open before he was awake enough to fight.

Before anything could happen (beyond a few bruises and stark terror) the dark, paunchy man had burst into the room and beaten the two slaves to the floor with his baton. David could hear the buzz of the shocks, turned up high.

When the two rapists were reduced to crying, gasping huddles on the floor, shaking and stinking of urine, the man pointed to David and said, "That is Commerce property. It is not for your use. You won't touch, use or damage anything not specifically given to you for your use." Then he'd turned and left them there on the floor, and David naked and stunned on his cot, closing the door behind him.


	26. Chapter 26

Ben -- I'm certainly interested in getting Orlando back. Let me know what you want, and if it's within my power then we'll do business.

Neeson

***

Lord Neeson,

You can't give me what I really want, my freedom, but the next best thing is a good life. Can you promise me that? I don't mind doing stuff sometimes but I'm not into sweat-labor or anything, and I don't like being bored. Will you promise to support me for the rest of my life and not hassle me and just let me do my thing? Give me your word and I'll tell you who I really am and where I am. You come make my new owner an offer he can't refuse. Once I belong to you, I'll tell you everything I know.

Ben

***

Ben -- I'm sorry you're in a bad situation but how do I know you have any information that'd be useful? If you just met Orlando in passing for a few hours, in a warehouse or something similarly temporary, that's not really worth what it's likely to cost to persuade a reluctant owner to sell you.

I'm anxious to get Orlando back but I need some reassurance I'm not just being played here. A lot of people know my Orlando is missing by now, and you could be anyone.

Neeson

***

Look, I'm the one taking all the risks, here. I'm a slave, right? I could hand you your guy on a golden plate and you could turn around and fuck me over and I'd have absolutely no one to complain to. So pardon me if I don't feel all that sorry for you, having to take a chance with some cash. If you're as filthy rich as Orlando said, you could buy twelve of me and not notice.

I'm not asking for a pile of money for myself. I'm not asking you to smuggle me out of the country. I'm not even asking you to support me in my own 50-room mansion with a fleet of Italian sports cars and a dozen slaves of my own. I just want a decent future with no one messing me over. I didn't ask for this and I'm not going to apologize for taking the only chance I've got to make the best I can of a really shitty life.

And by the way, the longer you fuck around, the harder it's going to be to find Orlando and the less likely it is that he'll be in decent shape if you do catch up with him.

So do we have a deal or not?

***

Ben -- for someone asking for a damned huge favor, you don't seem to care what impression you make. That's bad negotiating, just as a tip.

Some other things have come up and I'm not even sure anymore that it'd be in Orlando's best interest to be found, Commerce being what it is. I'd still love to get a crack at whoever took him, though. It doesn't sound like you know where Orlando is right now anyway -- can you give me the thief at least?

Neeson

***

Oh, what-fucking-ever. You're right, I don't give a shit what you think of me. If you want to drop this then we can drop it. If you want Orlando then I can set you on his trail. If you want the thieves (more than one) then I can give you two of their recent addresses, and that was two places they used at the same time, not two in a row with one abandoned already.

Let me know if you ever make up your damn mind.

***

Ben hit SEND on his latest e-mail and cussed under his breath.

Owners all sucked, and the nobles were the worst of them. How did rich assholes ever keep from going broke if they couldn't even make up their minds what they wanted?

He might just be better off saying fuck it all and staying with Mr. Duncan. He wasn't totally sucky, as owners went. He still hadn't tried to fuck Ben, or hit him more than a smack here and there. The work wasn't really hard and he could do whatever he wanted once it was done -- watching TV or playing on the computer or whatever. So far as he could tell, Mr. Duncan wasn't even monitoring his computer usage. Not that it'd do him a lot of good to try, 'cause Ben was smart enough to erase any tracks he didn't want found and replace them with normal stuff, mostly porn 'cause that was iffy enough he could pretend to be embarassed if anyone confronted him about it and throw off any suspicion that he _could_ doctor the caches.

But staying with Duncan probably wouldn't be all that bad. The problem was, Ben didn't know that he _would_ be with the guy for the long haul. Sure, if he was really as satisfied as he seemed to be, maybe he'd keep Ben for the next forty years and it'd all be cool. But maybe he wouldn't -- maybe he'd get bored, or decide he'd rather have a woman, or just use a PDA and do the work himself.

Or, fuck, he might get hit by a bus tomorrow and then what? Ben had no idea who'd inherit him if Mr. Duncan died. Maybe no one -- he might end up back with Commerce. Either way, it was owner-roulette all over again.

He made a mental note to ask about heirs and all, if Neeson ever got his fucking act together and decided to deal. Make sure there was something in his will about his heirs keeping the bargain. For all Ben knew, he could be ninety-six and on his deathbed; even if not, there was always the bus option.

Ben had never been curious before, but suddenly he was. He got back on the keyboard and a minute later was looking at a bio of Neeson on one of his company web sites, with a formal portrait.

All right, definitely _not_ ninety-six. Not bad if you liked older guys. And Orlando'd been right -- the guy was rich enough to buy a _hundred_ and twelve of Ben if he wanted to, so all his screwing around obviously didn't have anything to do with money.

It'd been a couple of months, so maybe he was starting to lose interest in Orlando? The guy was hot, yeah, but he was over thirty and after this long, how many owners would still be interested? Neeson probably had a new body-slave by then anyway. Besides, Orlando'd said he was into kids, so why did he even care whether he got his way-too-old slave back anyway?

 

Thewlis put down the last of the print-outs and said, "This Ben could definitely use a few manners, but he has a point. Why the delay?"

His employer leaned back in his office chair and stared at the ceiling. "I don't know what to do. I'm just not sure anymore. What if we _do_ find Orlando -- then what? Parkinson as good as said right out that whenever he's found they'll take him as a runaway and that's that."

"So, what then? Do you want to abandon the search?" 

"Maybe I should."

Thewlis blinked. He'd never seen Lord Neeson looking so tired, had never _imagined_ him looking so... so empty. Deflated. He'd always been the irresistable force, or at least had behaved like one. But now?

It was true that Thewlis had never known anyone to take on Commerce and come out the winner, but Lord Neeson had always forged ahead, sure that he could power through and end up getting what he wanted, on sheer force of personality if nothing else.

Now, though, all that was gone.

"Well, it's your choice, My Lord." Thewlis stood up and fiddled with his coat buttons for a few moments. When the silence stretched, he added, "You have my number if you need anything else," then bowed and left.

 

David had gotten used to the routines -- sleeping in the open, shuffling darkness; eating whatever he was handed, whenever food was available; obeying without question anyone who wasn't wearing a collar, and even some who were.

The training was more dull than difficult, and emotionally taxing rather than physically. David seemed to be having an easier time of it than most of the others, something he only noticed after he'd been there a while.

Some "while" he couldn't measure, because the first... "while" had passed like a cold, distant dream. He only noticed it later, when everything around him began to change.

Colors were brighter, sounds were clearer, people and things were sharper, and his memory was retaining and sifting and processing it all. His headache was gone, as was his nausea, and that probably helped. But it was like he'd been dragged around in his sleep for some unknowable period, and had only recently woken up.

Which was why, in the middle of lunch one day, while eating his baloney sandwich, he saw one of the staffers leaning against a wall, watching all the slaves gulp their food while eating something of his own. It was a cookie, a big one, golden brown and studded with something dark. And Orlando remembered.

Because cookies meant his mother and the kitchen and his _master._ Some of his first memories were of sitting with Master Liam outside, of his master sharing cookies with him.

Orlando dropped his food and scrambled to his feet. He wove his way through the crowd of slaves, stepping over legs and tripping over feet and slipping once on someone's spilled milk, moving faster until by the time he got close to the staffer with the cookie he was running and had to skid to a stop. Which was just as well because the man had seen him coming and had his baton up and pointed right at Orlando's chest; he stopped a bare finger-width away from getting shocked.

"There's been a mistake! I don't belong here! I _have_ a master!"

The staffer swallowed his mouthful of cookie, then said, "Aww, fuck."

Someone behind him hooked Orlando's legs out from under him. He hit the concrete floor with a thud, flat on his face and gasping for air.

"Figures," said a harsh female voice from somewhere past his feet. "Not a lick of trouble out of this one for all this time, and he picks our shift to have a looney break."

Orlando felt a heavy hand on the back of his neck, pressing his face into the cold floor. His tunic was shoved up and something hard and plastic ran across his back, then beeped.

"David Grant. Says here he's a liar and a troublemaker. Babbled some story about already being a slave when he was first brought in, thought that'd make Intake let him go so he could run on home to his owner."

A chorus of harsh laughter echoed through the concrete room; more staffers must've come over to see what the fuss was about.

"No, it's true!" Orlando had an empty feeling in his gut and was sure no one would believe him, but he had to try. "If you'd just call him!"

"Give it up, slave," said the man with the cookie. He took another bite, then added, spewing crumbs, "If y'keep spouting bullshit, y'll just get hurt. You been smart s'far, keep it up."

"But--!"

A baton tapped his shoulder, sending a jolt through him. If he hadn't been still sprawled on the floor, he'd have fallen again. The woman's voice said, "Shut up. At least you could've come up with something plausible. Usually the whine is that there was a mistake in the accounting, or they could've paid their debt if they'd had another month, or some crap like that. 'I'm already a slave' has to be _the_ stupidest whine I've ever heard, so just save it. Right?" She jabbed his ass with her baton, sending one last jolt through him. "Right."

Orlando just lay there, gasping for breath and waiting for his limbs to start working again, until the lunch period was over and they were all hustled out to their next training session.

But he remembered who he was, and what had happened, and he _would_ find someone who'd listen.


	27. Chapter 27

Liam clicked SEND on a letter to one of his project managers, then shut down the mail window and closed the design review reports he'd been quoting out of while listing instructions.

That was it; everything that needed to be done for the day was finished and everything else could wait. He stretched, feeling the ache in his back and the pull of his muscles, then just closed his eyes and relaxed back into his chair, arms draped over the sides and head resting on the back. He had no idea what time it was and didn't particularly care.

The house felt cold. It was probably just the December chill, although the heating system was perfectly efficient and the panel in the hall had shown a perfectly steady seventy degrees all day, every day. Must be something wrong; he made a mental note to have someone come out and look at it.

He heard the door open, then soft footsteps across the carpet. Something clinked down on his desk and he opened his eyes. A plate with two brownies in it sat next to his keyboard.

A glance at the clock showed that it was well past dinner time. Liam started to say "Johnny" while turning to look over his shoulder, then stopped. It wasn't Johnny.

Gloria put her hands on his shoulders. The were thin, bony hands with wrinkled-crepe skin and dark spots. He covered her right hand with his left and squeezed. "What are you doing here? It's a long way from the kitchen."

"I can manage perfectly well," she said. "I'm just slow."

"That may be, but you still shouldn't be standing there like that." Liam slid out from under her palms and helped her over to the sofa.

She sat, slowly, then patted the cushion next to her. "Come sit with me," she said. It was as good an idea as any; as he sat, she said, "You hardly ever come to the kitchen anymore."

Liam looked away and stared at a print on the wall, two golden retrievers in a meadow. He tried to think of something to say, but words came rushing through his mind in a jumble and refused to fit together or make any sense.

She clasped his hand in one of hers and squeezed lightly. "We all miss him too, you know," she said. Her other hand reached up and brushed through his hair. "There's not a single person here who'd think the less of you for showing it."

He felt his jaw clenching, and the hand she held fisted. If anyone else, any other slave had dared so presume, he'd have dealt out a whip-crack reprimand and probably at least a smack to teach them to hold their tongue.

But this was Gloria, and without even thinking, he said, "I don't know what to do." His voice was low and strained and plaintive, and showing that much weakness and uncertainty in front of anyone else -- slave or free -- would have had him dying of shame, or wishing to.

But this was Gloria. She'd seen him in worse circumstances, been witness to and recipient of his teenage fumblings, when he'd been fifteen and his father had thrust her into his room and ordered her to show him the way of it. She'd been thirty-three and still a lovely woman, but from his perspective of excitement and terror, she'd borne a horrifying resemblance to his mother. He'd been unable to perform for most of the afternoon, and when he'd finally managed to work up the interest, he'd spurted onto her thighs the moment his hand had brushed between her legs.

She'd never laughed at him, never shown any irritation. Nor had she shown the sort of neutral patience a discreet slave might've put on to hide distaste or contempt, nor had she gone right to work to get him up and ready quickly. Instead she'd pulled him down beside her and cuddled him, with his burning face hidden in the soft curve of her throat, and rubbed his back until sleep took him away from his masculine humiliation. At some point later that evening, he'd woken up to a wonderful sensation, and found her straddling him, impaling herself on his newly-interested cock, and from there it had gone as well as any fifteen-year-old virgin could hope for.

Liam had always been grateful to her, a feeling he'd instinctively hidden from his father. He'd held the man in great respect, but some things weren't shown. He honestly couldn't have said whether his father would have strongly disapproved of any son of his feeling gratitude toward a slave, or whether he would have strongly disapproved of any son of his _showing_ gratitude toward a slave. Either way, the result would have been the same and Liam had known to conceal his feelings.

And now, forty years later, he realized that he still felt safe in her presence. Not physically, of course, but rather in knowing that he could trust her not to scorn his failings. With everyone else he had to be strong and decisive and in control, and usually that wasn't at all difficult because he _was_ a strong and decisive man and he rarely lost control of anything. Now, though....

"I don't know what to do," he repeated. "Even if I find him, they won't let me have him. And I can't even say that what happened to that boy at the club was worse than what Commerce does to runaways. At least it was over with in one evening, a few hours instead of days or weeks or months of slow murder."

She shifted position and he felt her rubbing his back. "So, what _can_ you do?"

"Nothing. If I find him, Commerce will take him away from me."

She was silent for a while, just rubbing, then said, "Well, what if you don't tell them?"

He shook his head and squeezed her shoulders, only realizing then that his arm had gone around her in return. "They'll find out. Someone will tell them. Or even if not, they can do inspections whenever they like. I'd have to hide him in a secret cellar or something, and even then hope that a Commerce agent didn't terrorize one of the others into telling."

"No, that's not what I meant. If you find him, can't you just check on him, make _certain_ he's better off where he is than with Commerce?"

"I--" Liam blinked and cut himself off. He'd just assumed that finding Orlando meant scooping him up and taking him home, whether grabbing him out of the hands of criminals or writing however large a check was required to buy him from someone who'd unknowingly been sold stolen property. He hadn't thought beyond that, nor even taken the process apart to see if there were any earlier point where he could stop.

Just finding him and _then_ deciding -- that was actually an excellent idea, one which hadn't occurred to him in his desperation to _find_ Orlando and get him _home._ And in fact he was a little embarassed for not thinking of it himself.

But it was all right. Gloria wouldn't laugh at him for that, either.

 

Ben hadn't bothered to check his secret e-mail for a couple of days. He was pretty sure Neeson had bailed on him for good, and only boredom sent him looking that afternoon, just for the fuck of it.

He read the note, then sat back and scowled at the monitor.

Changed his mind again. Great.

All right, then, it was his decision. This was it -- he could send the guy his actual name and contact info and let Neeson buy him from Mr. Duncan. Who really wasn't that bad, but you never knew and there was always the bus option. Although Neeson could end up screwing him over -- pump him for info and then sell him to the mines if he wanted -- and Ben would be basically, well, screwed, with no one to squawk to.

Or for that matter, Neeson might decide to go all Good Citizen on him and hand him back to his old master.

Ben shuddered. The mines would be worse, but only by a hair.

He stared at Neeson's e-mail with one elbow on the table and chewed on his thumbnail.

Decide, decide, decide....

Fuck it. He hit REPLY and started typing.

 

Marton handed the girl -- new name Alice Hong -- over to Brendan and went back to the van to get the boy who was still shackled in the back. They'd get them settled into their cells and then they'd be Anderson's problem.

Mitchell Thurston had managed to get himself indebted for over a million, so while the switch fee was higher than usual, Marton wasn't going to be able to tack as much on as he'd hoped; Commerce would only reimburse for so much, unfortunately. Still, with Ben's sale earlier, it'd put him over his target and he was getting out. The two slaves had been crowded into the back of the van with records and equipment he wouldn't be needing anymore; he'd shut down the office operation and was dumping the detritus on Anderson. He could rent a new place, or not, and do whatever he wanted.

Marton had no idea what Anderson was going to do for a plastic surgeon, but that wasn't Marton's problem either.

Ten minutes later he headed into the office where the new slaves were now visible on two of the monitors. He grabbed a cup of coffee and said to Anderson, "The rest is in the van and the main office is empty. It's all yours."

Anderson grinned at him and lifted his own coffee mug in a toast. "So, when are you heading out?"

Marton eyed him and took a leisurely sip. "Perhaps I misspoke. It's not quite _all_ yours yet. I'll be leaving soon after I have my checks for these last two slaves."

"Oh, sure, sure! That's what I meant!"

His erstwhile employee sounded a bit too hearty and Marton sighed. He glanced around to make sure they were alone, then said, "All right, just as a thought experiment, let's make sure we touch all the bases. I'm being wildly generous to you, having set this whole operation up and then being willing to hand it over and walk away. Generous does not mean stupid, however.

"An acquaintance of mine has a letter, addressed to the Secretary of Commerce, with instructions to mail it if he doesn't hear from me, in a letter postmarked from a certain city and country upon which we've agreed, by a certain date. If anything unfortunate were to occur to me, et cetera, et cetera. And if, again purely for the sake of our thought experiment, you should attempt to cheat me out of anything which is rightfully mine -- especially considering all that I'm giving you out of the goodness of my heart -- I might just find that even if I do survive to leave this forsaken country, I might not be able to spare the cost of a stamp to write to my old acquaintance and assure him of my well-being. I'm sure you wouldn't want this person to be left worrying over me, wondering whatever could have happened."

Anderson smirked, and gave Marton another salute with his coffee mug. This second gesture had less of celebration about it and more of irony. "No, that'd be a shitty thing to have happen, I'm sure."

"Then we're agreed that we would both rather this thought experiment never be carried out."

"Oh, sure, absolutely." Anderson swiveled around in his chair to face the monitors once more, and pretended to be busy with something in a second window.

Marton rolled his eyes. Too predictable. He'd have to think about giving Brendan a hint; Marton didn't think things were going to go all that well once Anderson's were the sole hands on the reins.


	28. Chapter 28

The one thing Kevin did _not_ expect was to have Lord Fucking Neeson show up, briefcase-toting body-slave in tow, and ring his master's fucking doorbell.

It was Sunday morning and his master was still at the table with his coffee and a laptop, surfing the newsblogs. The doorbell rang and when Kevin opened it he found himself staring up at the man whose picture he'd been looking at on the computer just the other day. He didn't even say hello or ask what he could do for the visitor; he just stood there with his lips parted and his eyes about to fall out of their sockets.

Neeson looked him over, then said, "I assume you're Kevin?"

"Uhh... yeah. Yes. I am." He glanced over his shoulder, then looked back and whispered, "What the fuck are you doing here?!"

"You wanted me to buy you," Neeson said. Kevin wanted to punch the sardonic humor right off his face. "So here we are. Is your master home?"

Kevin's master noticed the delay at the door right then, just to make everything perfect. "Kevin? Who is it? What's up?" Mr. Duncan stepped up behind Kevin and took in the visitors. He and Lord Neeson sized each other up while Kevin shifted from one foot to the other and considered the practicality of just bolting out the door.

Nah, he probably wouldn't make it out of the building. Even if the two free men's attention was occupied with one another, the body-slave -- and what the hell was Neeson doing with a body-slave that _old?!_ \-- was eyeing _him_ and didn't look like the kind to just conveniently step aside if Kevin made a break for it.

Neeson broke the silence by saying, "Liam Neeson," and handing Mr. Duncan a card.

There was another pause, then Mr. Duncan said, "Well, good morning, Your Lordship. What can I help you with?"

"I'm here about Kevin, actually," Neeson said.

"Kevin? What'd you do, boy?"

A huge hand on his shoulder turned Kevin around so he was facing his scowling master. Kevin just shook his head, unable to think of what to say, how to explain, but Neeson said, "No, he hasn't done anything wrong. The situation is rather complicated, though. Is there a place we could talk?"

Mr. Duncan gave Kevin one last glare, then said, "Sure, come on in." He led them to the living area and made a wide gesture toward the seating. Neeson took an armchair. His slave knelt down next to him and set the briefcase neatly on the floor at his knees.

"Kevin, bring the coffee in here."

"Yes, Sir." Kevin headed out to the kitchen as fast as he could without actually running, then leaned stiff-armed over the sink and took some deep breaths.

What the fuck? Because seriously, what the hell was Neeson thinking?

Kevin had thought that maybe he'd find someone who knew Mr. Duncan, figure out how to meet him, get invited over for dinner or something so he could pretend to meet Kevin, then maybe do the, "Hey, your slave's really hot and I suddenly have to have him. Couple mil? Three? Four? Four and a half?" Or whatever, but something at least a _little_ sneaky, 'cause just showing up at the door wasn't at _all_ sneaky and Kevin had no clue how the guy was going to pull it off.

Not that anyone was asking his opinion.

All right, fine. Coffee. There was only a little left in the pot, so Kevin poured it out and got another one going. While waiting, he found a tray and clean cups and some napkins, got the sugar bowl and put milk in the little pitcher, a couple of teaspoons.... The coffee still wasn't done so he dug some cookies out of the pantry and put them on a plate, then added a couple of smaller plates to the tray.

It was kind of silly just for after-breakfast coffee, but if Kevin didn't have something to concentrate on, something to _do,_ he was going to faint in the middle of the floor and that wouldn't be cool at all.

Although if he did that, at least he wouldn't have to deal with this _totally_ fucked-up situation for a while, at least until someone noticed he'd been gone too long and found a bucket of water or something to toss on him.

The coffee finally finished dripping and he added the pot to the tray -- and damn, that was heavy with all the crap he'd piled on it -- then bit his lip and walked carefully back to the living area.

Conversation stopped when he walked in and he almost dropped the tray.

Mr. Duncan pointed to the coffee table and Kevin got his feet moving again. He set the tray down and served the two men, offering sugar to his master, then milk and sugar to Neeson. Then around again with the cookies. Mr. Duncan waved them away; Neeson took five, then gave one to his slave.

Then Kevin was done. There was nothing left to do, so he went and knelt next to the coffee table and stared at the carpet.

"Kevin, you tell Lord Neeson what you know about his missing slave."

Kevin clenched his teeth and had to take a breath to keep from swearing. Fucked over -- of course. Why should Neeson spend the money when he could just go to Kevin's owner and have him _order_ Kevin to tell what he knew? And how stupid had Kevin been to actually believe that an owner -- a _lord_ \-- would think twice about breaking his word to a slave?

He looked at Neeson, then at Mr. Duncan, then back at Neeson, then snarled, "That wasn't the deal."

"Excuse me?" There was hell to pay in his master's voice, but just then Kevin didn't give a damn.

He ignored his owner and said, "You're supposed to buy me and _then_ I tell you."

Neeson opened his mouth to answer, but before he could get a word out, Mr. Duncan said, "You're that eager to be owned by someone else that you'll look away and ignore me? _Look_ at me, boy!" Kevin's head snapped around, his heart pounding because he was sure he was going to get a punishment that'd cripple him for a month, and the man went on, "What's your problem all of a sudden? You have a complaint? You don't like it here? What's your issue? I don't beat you, I don't fuck you on the sly, you get good food and easy work and plenty of spare time -- what's wrong, then? You have an issue being owned by a Black man?"

"What?" That one threw Kevin off balance for a moment. "No! I don't-- Master-- look, I'm sorry but it's not personal. You're right, it's fine here and if I have to be a fucking slave--" Oh, shit! Well, fuck it, keep going. "--Then this isn't a bad place to be. You're the best master I've ever had and that's not necessarily saying a lot but it _is._ You're a decent owner, more than anyone I've ever known. But I don't want just a decent owner. I want _security._ I want to know that I've got a good life and that it's forever, no matter what."

No one was stopping him so Kevin just keep rambling, everything that'd been flowing around and round in his brain for years, it all finally had an outlet and had to get out. "You're good to me, yeah, but what happens if you get tired of me? I'm right back at Commerce rolling the dice again. Or when you die? Who'd own me then? Are they as good as you, and if so would they even want to keep me? Or would I go back to Commerce? Who would I end up with next?"

Mr. Duncan was scowling, but he looked thoughtful as much as angry. "What got you all worked up about that? You're doing a good job, never made any fusses until now. And I'm not planning on dying for a good while, you know?"

"Your pardon, Master, but it's not always your choice. You could get hit by a bus tomorrow and what would happen to me then? You're the best master I've ever had," Kevin repeated, "but I can't count on that forever."

Mr. Duncan's scowl deepened. "That's right, you've been a slave before. Commerce told me you were just enslaved, that I'd be your first master. What's up with that?"

Which... was just another request for the whole story. And fuck it -- if Mr. Duncan was going to kick his ass then it was going to happen and no point making it worse. He'd just as soon tell Neeson to go fuck himself, but he didn't have that luxury.

He looked down at the carpet again and said, "I was out with my master. He was getting a new suit fitted and he sent me to get him a table and order his lunch for him at a restaurant a few blocks away. On the way there, a couple of guys pulled up in a van and yelled to me, asked if I knew how to get to the 405 from there. I went over to the window so I could tell them, and the sliding door opened and another guy grabbed me. They drugged me and I woke up with my chip and my brand gone." He looked up at Mr. Duncan and said, "You're my fourth owner. Not counting the guy who stole me."

"Where were you? Do you know?" Neeson was leaning forward, like he was about to grab Kevin and shake the information out of him.

"Bakersfield. They have a place there -- a rented space in an industrial park -- where they take the slaves and do the surgery and keep them for a while. They also have a fake Commerce center about ten minutes away, in a sort of a strip mall, where they take slaves who won't just agree to go along with Plan A."

"How do you fake a Commerce center?" Mr. Duncan asked, sounding skeptical. "People'd notice."

"No, Sir. The front is just blank and locked; it looks empty. Slaves are taken in the back. There aren't any signs outside, just inside. There's a reception area and a hallway and a few cells and a training room. That's all the slaves see when they're there, the ones who think it's a Commerce office. There's another office room with monitors and stuff, but they never see that."

"But you did," Neeson said. "How did you get to see how everything worked if they were hiding it from the slaves they stole?"

Kevin shrugged. "I made a deal with the guy who ran it all. I helped him process the other slaves, tried to persuade them to go along, or played like I was another slave if they wouldn't. Having another slave around who didn't believe them made it...." He trailed off and looked away from Neeson. "I helped. Csokas, the guy in charge, he said that if I helped him he'd give me a new identity and let me go when he was done. I didn't really believe him, but I had to try."

"Judas goat."

Everyone looked at Neeson's slave, who looked away and murmured an apology. Neeson ruffled his hair, then rested a hand on his shoulder and murmured back, "It's all right." Then he looked back at Kevin and said, "Go on, what else?"

It took a while. Neeson's slave, whose name was Johnny, got a pad and pen out of the briefcase he'd brought in and took notes. He told them how it all worked, Plan A and Plan B, the drugs and beatings and how it worked almost every time. He gave them Parker's name and a description, and Neeson got a hard, ugly smile while he listened to Kevin tell about the Commerce guy. They had Kevin spell names and repeat addresses. Kevin didn't care anymore. Neeson had outmaneuvered him -- not that it'd been tough to do, him being free and Kevin being a slave and all -- and Kevin was going to be left to catch the shit when Neeson was done with him.

Except when they were done, once Johnny had put away his pad and the owners had finished their coffee and everyone had wrung the last drops of information out of Kevin -- even Johnny, who'd shot his own questions at Kevin and their masters had just stared at Kevin like, "So? Answer him," so he had -- Neeson said to Mr. Duncan, "So, I promised Kevin I'd buy him, and ensure he's taken care of for the rest of his life. What do you think we can do about that?"

"You still want him?" Mr. Duncan sounded kind of surprised, which was barely a fraction of the shock running through Kevin.

"I never particularly _wanted_ him," Neeson answered. "But that's not the point. I'm ready to offer a generous price for him."

Mr. Duncan frowned and watched Kevin, still kneeling on the floor, for a few seconds. "I need to think about it. Talk to Kevin. He's a good secretary, minds things around the house, doesn't cause trouble till now."

"He's been of considerable help to me, and others who've lost slaves," Neeson said. "If we can see this crew branded and collared, and Csokas first in line, I think it will've been worth the... inappropriate behavior. That's just my opinion, though. You're his owner."

"Yeah, you've got a point," Mr. Duncan agreed. "At least, he didn't start it. Let's see what we can work out. I'll give you a call if I decide to let him go."

"Excellent." Neeson stood, and his body-slave slid into place next to him. "I'll be waiting to hear from you, then."

And he left. The door closed behind him, and Kevin turned around to face his owner.


	29. Chapter 29

They picked up Mr. Thewlis, who'd been on a later flight, then headed out to the industrial park where Kevin had said this Csokas guy spent most of his time. Johnny could tell that Master Liam's gut instinct was to head straight to the fake Commerce office where Kevin had last seen Orlando -- the clenched jaw and fidgeting hands while they drove in a different direction communicated that as clearly as a billboard to someone who'd known him as long as Johnny had. But Kevin had been absolutely certain that Orlando would've been sold on already, so getting the man who was running the show was the next best move.

Or would have been, except he wasn't there.

Johnny, who'd been driving their rental car, triple-checked the map he'd printed out, went back to his notes for the address Kevin had given them, then checked again with Liam's own memory, all with an increasingly sick feeling in his stomach that he must've done something wrong, something stupid.

Nothing changed -- they were still parked in front of a small printing shop. The address was correct, a unit toward one end of the block in a light industrial area. The property was sort of like a strip mall, except with lots of roll-up doors and no big display windows.

Thewlis went in to investigate while Johnny paged through his notes again, over and over. His master sat in the back seat, his silence a condemnation.

Or, not really. Johnny knew Master Liam wasn't actually blaming him. If he'd thought Johnny had made some kind of mistake, he'd be giving instructions or just taking over himself to fix it. The fact that he was just sitting only meant that he was stressed-out too. But still, a stressed-out owner was never a good thing, no matter _whose_ fault the stress was.

Thewlis came out about five minutes later and slid back in next to Master Liam. He pulled out his laptop while saying, "They've only been there about three weeks. I got a card for the management company; we can find out who leased the space before the print shop was there. We might as well head over to the second site."

Unspoken was, "And hope they haven't moved out of that one too."

Master Liam nodded to Johnny in the rear view mirror, so he pulled out and drove west -- carefully, though his foot wanted to get there a hell of a lot faster -- toward the main commercial center, and then a little past it.

Thewlis found a number that wasn't just voicemail and Johnny heard him talking to someone with the company that collected rent on the industrial building. He asked about Csokas by name, then after a long pause, gave a description of him. That one worked; he'd leased the building under another name, or maybe someone else had leased it but he'd been there at the time. Whichever, it looked like that part of Kevin's story checked out, at least, which made Johnny feel a little better. Maybe a little optimistic, even.

The next stop was another strip mall only that one was real, complete with a 7-Eleven and a Starbucks. One unit was blank and looked like it was between occupants, like Kevin had said. Johnny pulled around to the back, counted doors, and parked near the one they wanted.

He hoped. He _hoped_ this was the one they wanted.

Master Liam was out of the car before Johnny got the keys out of the ignition, Mr. Thewlis right behind him. Johnny scrambled after them, catching up just as his master rattled the doorknob, then banged on the panel with one fist.

He waited maybe five seconds, then pounded again, harder. He was about to make it number three when there was a rattling click at the level of the knob and the door was yanked open by an annoyed but otherwise average looking guy who was saying, "Swear to God, if you forget--" then cut himself off.

The guy looked shocked for about half a second, then glared and started over. "This is a private--"

Master Liam cut him off by bulling his way inside; the guy backed up, probably preferring that to getting run over by someone who had five inches on him.

"This is a Commerce office, is that right?" Straight to the point with no bullshit, that was Johnny's master. Mr. Thewlis followed him in and helped with the looming intimidation thing. Johnny stepped over the threshold and then stopped to look around, both because someone probably should and because no one had ordered him to get anywhere near where a fight might break out any time now.

"Of course it is, and we're closed now. I have to ask you to leave."

There was a desk to one side, the sort of plain, cheap, metal-frame desk one would expect of a very low-level bureaucrat type, and the sign behind it read "Commerce Processing Center, Bakersfield."

"Oh? When are you open, then? Odd to be closed in the middle of the afternoon." Master Liam pulled out his phone. "As a taxpayer I disapprove. I think I'll call Stan Parkinson and complain." He bipped numbers into the phone with one thumb, then put it to his ear while saying to the fake-Commerce guy, "You've heard of Parkinson, of course? Regional Director?"

Johnny recognized the name of the man his master'd had a meeting with. He also knew that Parkinson was Regional Director for the Bay Area back home and had no direct authority over an office in Bakersfield. Of course, if he'd really been as friendly with Master Liam as he was implying with his tone and the quick call, he'd probably have been interested in hearing about a local office slacking off, and at the very least would know where to send the complaint.

Fake Commerce Guy being fake, though, he likely wouldn't know the difference either way.

Apparently he didn't because his next move was to snag the phone out of Master Liam's hand, then before anyone could react, turn and make an awkward leap over his desk. He landed hard in a sort of kneeling sprawl, but instead of getting up he fumbled in a drawer.

Johnny had a good idea what was next, which was why he dove down to the floor, right up against the mostly-metal desk, while Master Liam and Mr. Thewlis lunged after the guy. Legs flew over Johnny and he got kicked in the shoulder, then another foot used his back to launch off of for a jump. Johnny heard grunts and swearing and thuds and creaking, and the sound of one silenced round being fired -- which got his head buried even farther under his arms, whether that would've done any good against flying bullets or not -- before the reception room went quiet again.

"Now," said Master Liam, sounding just a bit winded. "Let's start over."

Johnny felt a nudge against the sole of one shoe. He uncovered enough of his head to see Mr. Thewlis, who now had a pistol in one hand, gesturing for him to get up.

"I'm looking for someone," Master Liam continued. "Two, in fact, and you're going to help me find both of them. One is a Marton Csokas. The other is a slave named Orlando Bloom."

Fake Commerce Guy coughed out a short laugh. "You want Csokas? You should've said so instead of all the 'taxpayer' crap. He's gone. He made his target and got out. This is my operation now."

"Gone where?"

"Out of the country, that's all I know. He was gonna liquidate and head out somewhere, retire and live the good life."

"When was that?"

"About a month ago, something like that."

"He left a _month_ ago?" Master Liam glared down at the guy, whose shirt front was still clenched in two large fists, and Johnny saw the guy's head shrink into his collar, like he thought he could hide or get away.

"No, no! He wrapped stuff up about a month ago, turned everything over to me. He was just waiting on some money and I paid him that a couple days ago. He might be gone by now or maybe not, I don't know, I swear! He didn't let me know where he was going or when or anything, and I don't expect to ever hear from him again!"

Master Liam muttered something that had "fuck" in it, then said "What about Orlando?"

"I don't know any Orlando."

Master Liam let go of the man's shirt with one hand and slammed a fist deep into his belly. The guy let out a breathy cry of pain, then gasped for air.

"Try again."

The guy shook his head and waved his hands in frantic little flutters. Mr. Thewlis pulled a photo out of his inside pocket and held it up in front of the guy's face. "How about this?"

The head shakes turned into eager nods. "Yeah, yeah! David! Right, he said his name was Orlando, I forgot!"

"Of course you did," snarled Master Liam. "Where is he?"

"I don't know. No, I don't, I swear! I... I sold him, I took him to a, you know, up to Santa Ana and processed him in! I don't know where he is now, could be anywhere!"

"How long ago?"

"About two and a half weeks ago! That Wednesday! He coulda been sold by now, he might be anywhere!"

"He's still there," said Johnny. All three men looked at him.

"Why?" asked Master Liam. "He could've been sold right away."

"Begging your pardon, Master, but if they sold him as a _new_ slave, then he couldn't. Basic indoctrination takes three weeks so he couldn't have been sold yet." It'd been a long time, but Johnny still remembered. Still had terrifying dreams about it every now and again.

"Excellent." His master gave him a grim nod, then dragged Fake Commerce Guy up onto his feet. "Who's your contact at the Santa Ana office?"

"I don't--"

"And don't try to convince me you just trot them all in and hand them off to whoever's working that shift. With all the fake paperwork you must deal in, that kind of risk would've had you caught a long time ago. You've got someone on the inside -- who is it?"

The guy shook his head again. Master Liam slammed it into the cinderblock wall.

"Who is it?"

"Parker!" The guy was starting to sound a little off, whether from the beating or from sheer terror. Johnny didn't feel at all sorry for him either way. "Warren Parker! He works swing."

"Good. Now, you're going to take us on a tour, and if I'm satisfied by what we see, we'll leave." He shoved the guy ahead of him toward the second door, leading to the inside.

They toured the place, which didn't take very long because it was pretty small -- about the size of a strip-mall restaurant, just partioned differently. There was one slave, a young man locked in one of the cells with recent marks from a flogging crusted across his back. Johnny, with his collar obvious over the unbuttoned collar of his polo shirt, went in to talk to him.

He said his name was Gerald. He didn't know how long he'd been there, but thought it was probably about a week. Long enough, anyway, that the flogging was definitely done there, and not something his old owner had done.

"Do I have to go back to her?" Gerald asked. He whispered, eyes down on the floor and arms wrapped around his stomach, as though afraid someone was about to leap out and punish him.

Johnny actually didn't know the answer to that. He wished not, but was afraid they'd have to give Gerald back. "I don't know," he said. "But you won't be here anymore, so that's good."

He touched Gerald's shoulder, then said, "Hang on, it's all right," when the kid flinched. "I'm not going to hurt you, I just want to see something." He ran his hand up one side of Gerald's neck, then the other. There, on his right side, the skin felt different. He tugged Gerald by the hand out into the hall where the light was brighter.

Gerald stopped when he saw the three men, or maybe it was just Fake Commerce Guy, who might well have been the one who'd been beating on him. Johnny repeated, "It's all right," and put his body between Gerald and the others. He tilted the kid's head to one side and took a look. Sure enough, the margins where the skin had been replaced were obvious -- smooth lines, no dimples from stitches, a few red and swollen places but nothing that looked infected.

He turned Gerald around to face the wall and searched across the center of his back. Again, a healing scar, this one much smaller and fainter.

"He's out of the system," Johnny said. He kept his voice neutral but it was a struggle. Gerald was free. _Really_ free, not just run away and waiting to be tracked down "free," which was no such thing. He could just _leave_ if he wanted to, go out and find a life. They could do this to _anybody._ To _him._ Johnny was momentarily overwhelmed with images of what his life could be like, if someone would just do this to slaves and then let them go instead of selling them again.

Johnny wasn't young anymore but he wasn't old, either, not really. He had a lot of mileage, maybe, but still, forty-five was barely approaching middle-age. He had valuable skills and experience, he'd travelled all over the world, he knew business down to the ground -- he could make a _good_ living for himself, if he only had the chance.

But of course, he wasn't going to get that chance. Gerald probably wasn't either.

His master's voice startled his attention back to the there-and-then and Johnny pushed all the longing and anger away, forced them out of his mind the way he always did. There wasn't anything he could do about it, and being angry just made you make mistakes and do stupid things, and that got you punished.

"--all we can get from this," Master Liam was saying. He looked around, then hauled Fake Commerce Guy into the small training room. It wasn't spacious but it was thoroughly equipped. Master Liam shoved the guy down onto the floor, buckled on a leather gag that'd been lying in the dark scum in one corner, then clicked his wrists into manacles set into the wall.

He said to Johnny, "Give his pants to the boy," then waited while Johnny hauled the guy's pants off, ignoring his protests, and helped Gerald into them.

Then Master Liam led them all back to the reception area and stopped. "Stay here with them," he said to Thewlis. "And give me the gun. I'll be back in a minute."

Johnny felt his stomach twist, and Thewlis said, "My Lord, you can't."

"Who's going to complain?" Master Liam asked. His jaw was set and his voice was cold and hard. "You?"

"No, of course not, but--"

"Johnny can't testify unless I let him. We'll think of something to do with the slave, but he can't testify either. And I don't imagine the other participants in this 'operation' of theirs are going to be terribly eager to call in a police forensics team. They'll dump his body and maybe think twice about what they're doing."

"But--"

"He _knows_ Orlando!" Master Liam stepped right up in Mr. Thewlis's face and looked like he was about to roar. "If we just turn him over to the police, or to Commerce, they'll suck every bit of information out of him with drugs and they'll find Orlando. And no, I'm not letting the fucker go. Now give me the gun so we can leave."

Thewlis stared at him, his eyes searching for something, then handed him the gun. He didn't say anything, or even nod, but he put his hand on Gerald's shoulder and turned his back.

Master Liam went back in through the inner door. Johnny half expected to hear the gunshot, even though he knew the gun was silenced. He didn't hear anything except his own breathing and the thudding of his own heart. His master was back less than a minute later.

"The gun?" asked Thewlis.

"Barrel of bloody rags and who knows what else, plenty to obscure a DNA analysis. And yes, I wiped it off first. Out."

Thewlis stayed behind to wipe down the office, then came out the door, wiped the knob and the spot where Master Liam had knocked, then got into the car.

As Johnny pulled out of the parking lot, Thewlis said quietly, "I can take care of the boy for you."

Johnny glanced up in the mirror and saw his master nod. They drove on in silence.


	30. Chapter 30

Orlando remembered.

He remembered being taken from the parking lot, fighting against the hands holding him down, and then losing his grip on the world. He remembered waking up with the men who called him "David," remembered being taken to a Commerce office to be sold, to be trained, remembered being so _sure_ his master would come for him, that it was all a mistake.

Having had time to think about it -- and a clear head, because the fuzzy memories and weird experiences convinced him that he'd been drugged at some point -- he was sure there was some kind of fraud going on. He'd been stolen out of that parking lot, stolen from his master, by thieving asswipes who just wanted to resell him like any other stolen property, like a car or a computer or a watch.

Except they must've gone to a lot more trouble than it'd take to steal and sell a watch because you couldn't just resell a slave out of the trunk of your car.

Orlando was even pretty sure that the first Commerce center had been in on the scam. Maybe the people who worked in that tiny office had come up with it themselves and that Csokas guy and his friend were Commerce employees. They could slip stolen slaves right in with the others and who'd ever know?

Or maybe that whole Center had been fake. He was wondering because what he'd gone through there had been nothing like what'd happened to him since arriving at the Santa Ana Center. Not only had the routines and the training been completely different, but the very first thing they'd done the morning after he'd been "transferred" was to chip and brand him. If the other Center had been real, why hadn't they done that there?

But the most important thing he'd remembered was his master. He knew -- _knew_ \-- that Master Liam would tear through anything and anyone to find him and get him back.

Except he hadn't, had he?

Orlando still didn't know exactly how long it'd been since he'd been stolen, since no one thought any of the slaves needed to know the date, but he was sure it'd been a long time. More than a month, maybe more than two. It'd definitely been six days since he'd remembered who he was.

Nothing had changed since then, except that they were coming to the end of their basic training and evaluation period, when most of them would be put up for sale and some would be sent for body-slave training.

The idea of getting body-slave training terrified him. He'd gotten used to Mr. Travers, when Master Liam had hired the man to train him at home, but he knew that sex training from Commerce would mean getting fucked by whole _crowds_ of strangers, and that he'd be forced to learn things Master Liam had never wanted from him, things he'd heard about from other body-slaves. Just the thought of it made his cock try to retreat up into his body, and his stomach twist and heave.

And he was still there, and his master hadn't found him, hadn't come for him. Was he even looking?

Orlando had never felt so alone before, ever, not even when his master had left him behind and gone to Turkey with only Johnny.

So, all right, he was on his own. He couldn't just sit there and wait -- like a car or a computer or a watch -- for his owner to find him and reclaim him. If he was ever going to find his way home, he'd have to do it himself.

The staffer who'd thought he was lying about being a slave already, the one who'd said it was a stupid whine and had shocked him, had been keeping an eye on him. She was always there whenever he was eating or exercising, was always one of the guards in the corners of the room during training. His record said he was a liar and a troublemaker and that _had_ to have been something the men who'd sold him had set up, to keep anyone from believing him if he tried to tell, but there had to be _some_ person who'd believe him, or at least check. Someone free, someone on staff, someone higher up than the low-level staffers with the shock batons, who were really just gofers who did whatever grunt-level work was needed. Orlando knew from experience that the lowest employees in the trenches were often the least likely to want to even hear about serious problems; anything outside their routine made them confused or hostile.

No, to solve the real problems you needed someone higher up. Orlando was willing to wait and watch for the right person.

 

Neeson had gone hostile when Thewlis proposed the plan, because it would take longer than the two days Orlando might have before being sold, but Thewlis persuaded him that doing a good job and having to pressure someone into reselling him later was better than going in half-assed and fucking up completely. Neeson obviously didn't like it, but he'd eventually agreed with a curt nod.

Thewlis found out which of the intake clerks at the Santa Ana office was Parker, then followed him home several days in a row. He always took the same route, the idiot, and always stopped in the same bar for drinks after work. So on Friday, Thewlis was waiting in the bar, dressed as a hot-shot businessman (in a suit borrowed from Lord Neeson, actually, which was the first time in his adult life Thewlis had run into another man the same height _and_ almost exactly the same build) in town to make money in the daytime and spend it in the evenings.

"Sure, you should come!" he said with more enthusiasm than enunciation. He leaned against his new buddy Parker, bumping shoulders. "It'll be a great party! My boss is a lord, you know? Always the best, nothing cheap or stingy. An' you should see his body-slave -- gorgeous, beautiful, and can suck your brains out through your prick! Come with me, I'll introduce you, we'll have fun!"

Parker had been all for that, and had followed with panting eagerness to the hotel, where he was impressed by the lobby, then even more impressed when Thewlis swiped his card in the elevator to access the top floor. "Presidential suite," Thewlis bragged, leaning just a little cockeyed against the wall.

He slung an arm around Parker's shoulders and steered him down the hall to the room, which he'd swept for bugs as well as he could that afternoon. Another pass of the card and he ushered Parker into the elegant entryway. Thewlis pulled the door closed behind them and made sure the lock clicked.

Parker was still craning his neck like a tourist when Thewlis led him into the living room with a strong grip on his arm. "My Lord, this is Mr. Parker."

"Mr. Parker." Lord Neeson stayed seated in a throne-like armchair. The man knew how to make an impression, and Thewlis smirked from behind Parker's shoulder.

"My Lord." Parker made an awkward bow and lost his balance halfway down. Thewlis caught him and hauled him back upright. "Thanks!" Parker looked around and asked, "So where's the party? We didn't miss it, did we?"

"No, Mr. Parker, you haven't missed anything. We're going to have a private party, just the three of us." He stood up, suddenly looming over Parker, who was only of average height. Parker tried to take a quick step back, but bumped into Thewlis. Neeson turned away and headed out of the living room, into the main bedroom, and on through to a large and sumptuous bathroom.

While Thewlis was frog-marching Parker in, Neeson went over to the already-filled hot tub and turned on the water full blast, then the jets and then the bubbles. He flipped the drain switch so the thing wouldn't overflow.

The noise from the rushing spigot, _and_ the gurgling drain, _and_ the jets, _and_ the bubbles would hopefully provide enough random noise to mask what was going to happen from any bugs Thewlis might have missed. They were hoping, at any rate. Betting their freedom, in fact.

"Wait, uhh...? What?" Parker was trying to step back toward the door but he was nowhere near strong enough even sober to take on Thewlis, much less drunk. "I mean, you're a good-looking guy and all but I don't know--"

"Shut up," said Neeson. He turned back toward Parker and Thewlis and punctuated the order with a fist to Parker's gut. Parker doubled over gasping, then vomited, then gasped again, then started choking. Thewlis, who'd worked over one or two drunks in the pursuit of his profession, wrapped both arms around Parker and did a quick Heimlich jerk, without being too terribly worried about cracking ribs or anything similar.

Parker coughed up the last of his martinis and a few semi-digested bar snacks, then knelt on the carpet sucking in air, letting each breath out with a pained whine.

"Just as well," said Neeson, his voice perfectly cold and clinical. "Maybe he'll even be sober enough to remember in the morning."

"Please!" Parker coughed again. "Please, don't hurt me, don't do-- I don't have anything, I haven't done anything!"

"You're lying, Mr. Parker. You've been consorting with thieves, illegal slave traffickers. They stole something of mine and _you_ helped them sell _my_ slave to Commerce. He's out of my reach and in deadly danger and it's your fault." Neeson reached down and grabbed a handful of Parker's hair, right at the scalp where pulling was most painful, and yanked the man's head back to look into his eyes. "You took something of mine. Now you're going to help me get it back."

Parker babbled half-coherent pleas and denials but Neeson just slapped him back to silence. A long stream of bloody spit dripped from Parker's mouth and joined the mess already pooled on the rug.

"So, this is what you're going to do for me. Commerce won't let owners search for a particular slave by name, but there must be internal tracking of individual slaves. You're going to find this one for me." Neeson paused while Thewlis got Orlando's picture out of his jacket pocket and held it in front of Parker's face.

"He's in the system under the name of David Grant," Neeson went on. "You're going to find him, and find out what happened to him. If he's been sold, you'll tell me who owns him. If he's in body-slave training, you'll tell me that too, and you'll let me know when he's due to be sold after _that._ Is that clear enough?"

"Uhh, what?" Parker tried to shake his head but Neeson still had a grip on his hair. "Wait, I can't! It's against the rules, I'll be enslaved for it!"

"You didn't mind breaking the rules to line your own pocket, and you'll be just as enslaved if I let your superiors know what you've already done. And I _will_ if you don't do this for me. I'll also strongly suggest you be sold to the mines, or to a drug company, assuming your superiors would need any such suggestion from me to set an example."

"I will! I will, I'll do it! Please don't tell anyone!" Parker reached out to clutch at Neeson's trouser leg, but Neeson stepped back, his mouth twisted in disgust.

"I expect to hear from you on Monday, letting me know where David is now. If he's been sold I want a full name and contact information. If he's in body-slave training, I want to know that for certain, and when he'll be through, _and_ you'll let me know again, twenty-four hours before he's put up for sale."

"I will, I will! Let me write--!" Parker scrabbled through his pockets.

Thewlis guessed he was hunting for a pen but he gave the man a hard tap on the shoulder and handed him an envelope. "Your instructions are in here, along with an e-mail address," he said. "Remember that we already know where to find _you._ I suggest you don't upset my employer any further," he added. "This is what he looks like when he's restraining himself. You _don't_ want to get him really angry."

"No! I mean, yes! I mean, I will, I'll do it, it'll be fine!" Parker shook his head, then nodded, while babbling assurances of performance. He tried to stuff the envelope into his pocket; Thewlis did it for him after watching him miss a few times.

Neeson nodded to Thewlis and left the bathroom. Thewlis imagined he was going to get Johnny, who'd been waiting downstairs in the restaurant; Neeson hadn't wanted him anywhere near the interrogation for whatever reason. After that, Thewlis imagined he was going to get very drunk, but Neeson had certainly surprised him before. Thewlis, at least, would be getting very drunk when the night was finished, because it'd been a long, rough few days.

"All right, then, up you get." He hauled Parker to his feet and scrubbed spattered vomit off him with a damp towel -- enough that he wouldn't attract any attention on their way back down and out through the lobby -- then walked him out of the bathroom and toward the front door. He'd get the man home and into bed and reinforce his instructions verbally one more time. He'd also make sure the envelope, which besides a repeat of his instructions contained a blind e-mail address and no identifiable names except that of David Grant (dangerous but necessary), was propped up somewhere so that it'd be one of the first things Parker saw when he woke up the next day.

That was two down. Now all they had to do was wait, hope Orlando was going through body-slave training, and in the mean time, take care of Marty.

Five and a half weeks, best-case scenario. Thewlis couldn't wait to be done with this mess.


	31. Chapter 31

The end of training came without any fanfare, or even an announcement.

The lack of ceremony or even a special marker made sense once Orlando thought about it. When Jamie and Paula had finished kindergarten and been promoted to first grade, there'd been a special ceremony at their school, with the graduating students in special caps they'd made themselves out of construction paper, and they'd all gotten a certificate and a hug from the teacher; it'd made the kids feel special and proud of their accomplishment, and eager for the next step to come. Master Liam and Mistress Natasha had been smiling and proud too, and Orlando supposed they'd been happy with the school for the job it was doing educating the children and making them enjoy the process.

No one cared how slaves felt about their training, though. And while there would soon be rich patrons purchasing each one of the slaves, they weren't in the picture yet, so there was no reason to put on a show to impress them.

Orlando hadn't even realized that the previous day had been the end of slave training, until the next morning when the line-up after breakfast hadn't led to the any of the training rooms. Instead, it filed past a clot of staffers who scanned each slave as they shuffled by. Most were shoved forward through a door which Orlando later learned led to a new dormitory for the slaves who were currently up for sale. A few, here and there, after having their chips scanned, were pulled out of line by one arm and shoved into a smaller group.

When Orlando stumbled over to that group, he looked around and knew what had happened. Paul had been right, after all; Commerce only trained unusually attractive people to be body-slaves.

By the time everyone had been processed and sorted, there were eight of them there in their corner. Orlando was the oldest, although not by as much as he would have thought.

He knew about the children trained to be body-slaves, kids as young as Jamie or even younger, although he'd never met one. Everyone in his group was an adult, though; the youngest was a teenage girl, probably somewhere between fifteen and eighteen.

They must have separate groups for children. Not out of any sense of what was proper or appropriate, of course, but because younger kids learned differently and at different rates from adults. The one thing he'd figured out about Commerce was that they were pragmatic all the way. They weren't deliberately cruel, just brutally efficient.

Somehow, that made it worse, treating the slaves like lumps of plastic to be pressed and cut and melted into a shape which could be sold for the greatest amount of money with the least amount of effort. At least cruelty would acknowledge that they were living, aware beings.

An unknown time after the last addition to the group scurried over to join them, they were marched down a hallway they'd never taken before, to a new training room. This one had the usual large, open space in the middle, but along the walls were benches and frames and racks of equipment. Orlando had seen enough of it before that his throat went dry.

The staffers prodded the slaves into a spaced line across the middle of the floor and ordered them all to strip. Clothes were collected and shoved into a slot in the wall, then the staff people retreated to the corners. Orlando ended up near one wall; the woman he'd been thinking of as his shadow was still nearby, propping up a wall a few strides away.

They all waited for another unknowable interval, then a well-fed man in a suit came striding in, followed by a man wearing more casual slacks and a button-down shirt. He deferred to the suited man and ignored the uniformed staffers.

The man in the suit stopped and took in the whole line of slaves, then grunted. "Decent enough group," he said. "Probably make some money on these."

That was it. Orlando stood perfectly still in his place at the end of the line, but excited thoughts raced through his head. That was the person he'd been hoping to contact, someone higher up, someone who should care about problems and be able to fix things.

Orlando felt a tingle of electricity running through his body, an excitement and hope he hadn't experienced in weeks. Months, maybe.

Both men walked slowly down the line, poking and patting and scrutinizing each body-slave trainee as they went, handling whatever parts they felt like handling and poking fingers wherever they felt like putting them. The man in the more casual slacks was treating the man in the suit like a horse broker treated a wealthy buyer -- showing deference and a quiet enthusiasm and a lot of salesmanship. The man in the suit _had_ to be someone important, and they were nearly down to Orlando's end of the line.

Suddenly the woman who'd been watching him was right next to him, kicking his feet out from under him. Orlando went down and the hard fall knocked the wind out of him. The woman glared at him and jabbed her baton into his chest; it must have been set all the way up because Orlando'd never felt that much pain from a shock baton before.

 _Real_ electricity ran through him, convulsing his body until his arms and legs flopped up and down, slamming into the floor. He tried to beg for her to stop but could only manage an animal cry, all agonized vowels.

By the time he noticed that the pain had stopped, the woman and the two men were standing over his jerking body. The woman was saying something about disrespectful gestures behind his back. Orlando tried to deny it but all he could get out was a grunted "No..." before his dried-out throat seized up.

He heard the bleep of a scanner and then one of the men said, "This is the one who claimed to already be a body-slave?" Someone snorted out a laugh and then two or three arms hauled Orlando to his feet.

The man in the shirt and slacks smacked Orlando's face until his eyes focused, then snapped, "Present!"

Orlando slammed to his knees in the present position he'd practiced for so long and so hard...

...and only after he was in position did an alarm slam through his brain. Wrong! It was all wrong! And the mental image of all that practice shifted and widened and he was in the other Commerce center, the one where the other guy, Anderson, had drilled him so hard while he was drugged and starving.

He tried to shift into the correct position but it was too late. The two men were already laughing and one was making some kind of comment about how he'd probably played around with his girlfriend and wasn't even bright enough to get the position right, and there were enough TV programs with body-slaves that he should've been able to find _some_ decent example to copy, and how it didn't matter because they'd beat all the bullshit out of him soon enough and have him looking like a _real_ body-slave and then Orlando felt strong, rough hands hauling him to his feet again and forcing him to stagger off in some direction he could only squint at through tear-filled eyes.

A male voice said, "Need back-up?" and a female voice said, "No, got it."

She steered him with one arm twisted behind his back until they entered a tiny room and she shut the door behind them. Orlando recognized this room; he'd been shown one like it weeks before and told that it was for the kind of punishment that couldn't be done on the spot.

The woman maneuvered him across the room, proving easily that she was stronger than he was, and pushed him up face-first against a frame made of steel piping. She clicked steel bands around his wrists and throat and waist and ankles. It was uncomfortable and the frame held him spread out without giving much support; trying to let the bands take his weight just hurt.

There were some footsteps, and a couple of hollow clicking sounds, and then something whippy and stingy slashed down across his shoulders. Orlando yelled and tried to jerk away, but he couldn't move and the bands bit into him again.

"You don't seem like a bad slave," said the woman from behind him. "You're just stupid. Stupid we can fix." Another line of pain crossed his back, a little lower than the first time.

"You were going to try your story about already being a slave again. I could tell. That would have been a stupid thing to do and I'm going to explain why, one time, and you're going to understand and never bring it up again."

Orlando wanted to answer that it _wasn't_ stupid, that it was _true,_ but when he sucked in a breath to speak she gave him another hard strike with whatever it was she was using.

"You're going to stay silent and listen, because you're stupid and I'm explaining something important," she said. "You weren't a slave before you came here. If you keep insisting that you were, there are only three possibilities. One is that you're a liar. That's what your file says and that's the one I believe. Lying is a bad habit for a slave no matter how bad you are at it and I _will_ beat it out of you while you're here."

Another slash, this one crossing two of the others. Orlando yelped in pain, gasping for breath and trying to stop the tears that were flowing again.

"The second possibility is that you're crazy, that you actually _believe_ you were a slave before when you weren't. We have people who can fix that too, but you don't want to meet them. They'll get you behaving perfectly well, but slaves who've been through the p-docs are too robotic to make good body-slaves, which means we'd lose money when we sell you. That would be bad, so I'm hoping you're not crazy."

Whack! That one went right into the crease beween his ass and his thighs and he screamed.

"The third possibility is that you _were_ a slave before but you ran away from your owner."

Orlando tried to gasp out "Stolen!" but before he could produce more than the first syllable, three more lines of fire tore across his back. He screamed and sobbed and begged her to stop.

"Ran. Away," she repeated. "Some runaways try to claim that someone else forced them to leave their owner, that they were stolen. It's obvious to everyone that this is a weak excuse used by runaways to try to avoid the punishment given to _every_ runaway." Slash, slash. She waited for Orlando to stop crying out before continuing. "Which is immediate assignment to medical testing, the mines, or waste clean-up. The best any runaway can hope for is a slow, painful death. What usually happens is an extremely _long_ and _very_ painful death. Every time. No excuses, no what-ifs, no mitigating circumstances."

He flinched, expecting more pain, but she didn't hit him again. She just stood silent for a few moments and he finally realized she was giving him undistracted time to think about what she'd said.

And he did. If he understood what she meant, she was saying that Commerce didn't believe slaves were ever stolen. Or they pretended they didn't. It didn't matter because the result was the same either way.

So he had two choices -- he could convince someone he'd been stolen and be branded a runaway and die of radiation sickness, his body covered with oozing sores, or some other similar nightmare death, or he could keep his mouth shut and be a good slave and live as David Grant for the rest of his life.

Either way he'd never be able to get back to his master.

The woman stepped up next to him, grabbed his hair in her hand and twisted his head around to force him to look at her glaring face. "Are you still stupid or do I have to go over it again?"

"No!" he gasped. He tried to shake his head but that just pulled his hair so he stopped. He tried to smile, though, wanting to do _something_ to show his gratitude. This room had to be monitored like every other room, so she couldn't have just straight-out told him what was what, but she'd saved him from committing slow, horrible suicide and he _was_ grateful. "No, not stupid anymore. Thank you. I--"

She cut him off with a painful shake that felt like his scalp was being torn off, then let him go and took a step back. "Don't think this means I'm your friend or any shit like that. You'll be valuable if you can keep your head out of your ass. If we lose you to the mines after all this, that goes on my record and I don't get a raise next year. So make sure you don't lapse back into stupid or I'll kick your ass and it'll make this feel like a birthday spanking."

She manipulated the latches on the steel bands and released him, then pointed to the door. "Walk. You're going back to training, and you get to do it with a sore back. Hopefully that'll help you remember this talk."

Orlando wasn't going to need any help remembering, but he said, "Yes, Ma'am," anyway and staggered across the room ahead of her.


	32. Chapter 32

The e-mail came from Parker on Monday, before noon, even. Orlando was in body-slave training, which was... better and worse, both. Liam had to admit that he was selfish enough to want Orlando back _completely._ He knew that what he _should_ want was what was best for his boy, and that was to be back safe at home as soon as possible, with as little abuse and trauma as possible. And part of him _had_ wished for that, the part that knew Orlando was unusually old for a "new" body-slave, and hoped that he'd be passed over for that reason.

But at the same time he knew his Orlando was still beautiful, and that it wasn't just whatever... whatever fondness or whatever it was that had crept into his heart that was saying so. He couldn't imagine anyone looking at the boy -- the young man -- and _not_ wanting him. That being the case, it couldn't be so wrong to be glad, in a way, that when they got through this fucking mess -- _when,_ not if -- he'd have Orlando back and things could return to the way they'd been before. They wouldn't have to sneak, wouldn't have to hope no one decided to make a phone call to Commerce out of spite, wouldn't have to hope a surprise inspection didn't catch Orlando in his master's bed in the middle of the night.

This was now, and now was so insane it was all but unbearable, but once it was over they'd have the rest of their lives, or the rest of Liam's life at least, and that was a long time to live with the constant fear of losing Orlando all over again.

Liam didn't want to lose him again, didn't want to have to worry about losing him again. And yes, he wanted Orlando in his bed, on his lap, kneeling at his feet, in the open for everyone to see. He wanted life to be _normal_ and that meant not only having Orlando back, but having the right to touch him and fuck him and make him fall apart with pleasure. He wanted _all_ of it back, and he knew his Orlando could get through whatever it took to come home to him and have things be normal again.

Before he could examine that too closely, his office phone rang. With Johnny gone again, Liam was answering his own phone, so he picked it up and and heard a familiar deep voice on the other end.

"Your Lordship? This is Mike Duncan."

Liam changed mental gears and said, "Good morning, Mr. Duncan. What can I do for you?"

"You still want to take Kevin off my hands?"

The man certainly didn't believe in small talk, or working up to a subject. "If you've agreed to let him go, yes. He decided not to stay, then?"

He heard a soft snort from the other end. "I decided I'd rather replace him. He's a good secretary and all, and I thought about keeping him, but he went behind my back and I can't tolerate that shit." Duncan paused for a moment, then added, "He said some things, made me think, you know? Maybe I'll do things a little differently next time. But still, I can't ever trust him again. No matter what it was for. So if you want him, you can have him."

"That's fine," Liam said. It was too bad it hadn't worked out between them, but he'd given his word after all. "How much do you want for him?" He listened while Duncan gave a number, bluntly and with no weaseling and wheedling, then nodded. "That'll be fine. I'll transfer the money today. If you could keep Kevin until Wednesday, I'd appreciate it. My agent is on a business trip right now, but I'll have him swing by your place on his way home and he can escort Kevin."

"Sure, sure, that's fine. No hard feelings or anything. Like I said, the kid hadn't caused any actual _trouble._ I'm sure he won't start any more conspiracies against me in the next couple of days."

"Likely not," Liam agreed. "Fine, then. It's good doing business with you, Mr. Duncan."

"You too. Later, man."

Liam hung up the phone and sighed. So he had a new... secretary? He didn't trust Kevin enough for that -- on that much he agreed with Duncan.

He had a feeling the boy had intended to be kept in completely laborless luxury like a virgin houri who never got fucked, for the remainder of his life. That wasn't going to happen, but neither was Liam going to set him to work mucking the stables or hauling rocks in the gardens. Maybe start him out answering the house phone, keep him off the net, see how that went. If he behaved himself for a year or two, he might be trustworthy enough to handle personal correspondence. Nothing strenuous -- that was part of the deal -- but something that'd let him make himself useful without needing constant supervision.

Maybe put him in the kitchen, see what Maggie could do with him?

He'd work something out later. Just then, Liam had more important concerns.

 

Thewlis tore down the dark highway as fast as he could without either crashing or getting pulled over, taking his frustration out on the gas pedal. He'd headed back to Marty's house in Nevada as his only point of possible contact, sure that Marton was about to skip the country if he hadn't done so already. It'd been possible -- probable even -- that he'd been packed and ready to go and wouldn't need to go back to the house he clearly didn't live in, but it'd been Thewlis's only lead and it'd paid off.

After spending the weekend watching, he'd been rewarded -- finally! -- on Monday evening with the sight of a strange car pulling up into Marty's driveway and a nearly familiar figure getting out. Mentally adjusting for the passing of a good twenty years, it had to be Marty.

Some covert work online while he'd waited had shown, after finding the right cracks to pry open and threads to trace, that Marty had been sending money overseas for several years. The particular "bank" he used was fronted by an internet gambling site. Anyone could come along and play, but setting up a particular sort of account ensured that all "losses" (less a percentage for the house, of course) went into a numbered account. The transfer was apparently legitimate, shady and unsavory but not usually criminal, and even in jurisdictions where online gambling was illegal, it was only a minor offense, especially for the player. Very few law enforcement agencies had the resources to chase down the people who were losing their money to those places; they were more interested, assuming they were interested at all, in shutting down the casino operations themselves, which was difficult when their servers were located in a neutral country, or one actively hostile to the Empire.

At any rate, that was a relatively small-time vice concern and the government was mainly interested in keeping a lid on it so far as they weren't able to tax the profits. Money laundering was another issue entirely, and from what Thewlis could tell, no one was heading down that particular track in this case, which meant Marty had a clear shot to retirement overseas with all his slave money.

He'd gone in with a cardboard banker's box and come out again a few minutes later with a briefcase. Records? Securities? Maybe even the last delivery or two from the casino? Thewlis had always suspected those hand-carries were cash. Whatever they were, it hadn't taken long for Marty to find them and get back out and on the road, heading toward Vegas.

Thewlis had followed him discreetly, usually from in front, all the way to the Vegas airport, where he'd seen Marty check in at a kiosk for a flight to Atlanta with a transfer to Munich, then Mumbai, which Thewlis had caught a glimpse of by means of a well-acted stumble and a flailing grab on the kiosk Marty had been using. He'd kept his head down and babbled apologies in response to Marty's cursing and shoving, then scuttled away, pretty sure he hadn't been recognized.

Hell, Marty'd hardly recognized Thewlis around campus to wave to back to when they were at Berkeley.

Back in the parking lot, he'd sent a note to Lord Neeson, then after a minute's thought he sent second one to Nick.

He wasn't sure Lord Neeson would appreciate the assistance, but he _was_ sure it was the right thing to do.

After that, he put his decision -- a done deal anyway -- out of his mind and headed back toward Marty's house. It was on his way home anyway, and there might be a few clues or even some hard evidence it'd be nice to have. He was particularly curious about what'd been in the banker's box.

He made it back in record time and parked in the driveway. He sprayed his hair to keep any from falling off, spent a good ten minutes with a lint brush for the same reason, then pulled on a pair of gloves, added some IR goggles so he wouldn't have to use a flashlight outside and maybe draw unwelcome attention, and started poking around the house for a way in.

The bathroom window'd been left open a crack and there was no screw-lock on the slide -- not even a dowel in the track. Thewlis shook his head at such sloppiness while popping the screen, shoving the window all the way open and boosting himself up.

Marty hadn't taken much. Poking around, using a penlight whenever he wanted to examine something in detail -- carefully and never near windows -- it looked like there was hardly any sign that the owner had skipped the country, or even gone on vacation.

Of course, the guy hadn't actually _lived_ there so it made sense that there wouldn't be much he'd care about enough to take with him.

The bedroom had been set up for hard play, so maybe Marty had actually lived there for a while. Maybe while settling in with his new casino? Or maybe the reinforced beams and various wall-mounts had been installed by the previous owners; it was impossible to tell.

He checked the closet, then the second bedroom and its closet, but found nothing particularly interesting. There was a desk in one corner of the spare bedroom but it was clean and empty except for a couple of pens and a souvenir staple remover from the St. Louis Arch.

Living room -- old-fashioned chenille sofa, loveseat and chair, oak side tables and a small pair of low, round tables where the coffee table usually would be. One of the round tables had an ashtray on it, and there was a lamp on one of the side tables, as well as recessed can lights scattered around the ceiling. An indifferently done painting of a desert sunset hung behind the sofa. Everything was fuzzed by a layer of dust.

Thewlis looked down and sure enough, the carpet was dusty too. It didn't show as much as it did on the furniture, but there were footprints leading from the front door into the... kitchen he saw, and a branching path which led through a set of louvered doors into a study.

Sort of. The built-in bookcases were mostly empty, but the desk showed more use than the small one in the bedroom. He searched it quickly but found nothing more interesting than some old utility bills, more pens, a couple of rubber bands and a handcuff key. The tracks in the dust passed the desk, though, and went up to the only chunk of bookcase which was actually full of books.

"Come on, Marty, you're smarter than this." He grinned while shaking his head in mock sorrow and heading over to the full bookcase section, obviously meant to camouflage something. A minute of poking, pushing and sliding had two full shelves of books swinging out, revealing a wall safe.

Someone who'd hide a safe behind fake bookshelves and not even bother to fill all the _other_ shelves with books obviously wasn't too terribly concerned with security, which had Thewlis wondering whether there'd ever been anything worthwhile in the safe. The chances of anything interesting being there _now,_ after Marty'd headed out, were low to non-existent, but he couldn't just leave it. He did, however, try his standard first option -- the default combo. Marty's safe was a common model from a large manufacturer and Thewlis didn't even have to pull out his PDA to remind himself what the default was. Twenty... forty... sixty... eighty... and click, it opened, and there was even a pile of papers and a couple of lock-boxes inside.

Stupid.

Which... Marty wasn't. He was a slimebag, but he wasn't stupid, never had been. He'd have been caught long before if he weren't a _smart_ slimebag.

The hairs at the back of Thewlis's neck started prickling. Something was wrong and he wanted out, ASAP.

He hauled the papers and boxes out of the safe and dumped them on the desk. He rolled the papers up and secured them with one of the rubber bands, then ran back to the bathroom and tossed them all out the window. They were probably worthless but he'd check later.

The other path in the dust had gone into the kitchen and he followed it, through the kitchen to another door, which led to the garage. Even with the overhead light on, it was dim and dusty, and it echoed with the sound of ticking.

"Fuck."

The safe had obviously been meant as a time-wasting diversion. Marty had either known someone was following him or he was incredibly paranoid. Maybe both.

The garage was full of banker's boxes, and in the center was an apparatus which included a wind-up alarm clock, a gas can and a lot of wires.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck...." It'd lasted that long, it'd probably last another minute or so at least. Hell, it might last an hour; if Thewlis had set it, he'd have wanted to be at least in the air, and preferably out of the country, before a bomb at his address of record had the authorities looking for him.

Thewlis wasn't going to waste the time checking out the obvious bomb when he knew nothing at all about explosives; instead he started yanking lids off cardboard boxes. Most were empty and he gave up on opening them all. He shoved the piles down instead and the air-light empties went flying. One went "thud" instead, and Thewlis saw the wire trailing out the back of the box just before the garage erupted and a wave of roaring sound slammed into his back.


	33. Chapter 33

Marton had almost seven hours between planes in Munich, which was perfect because he had some business to take care of before he went on. India was a perfect place to settle, at least for a while -- tropical and cosmopolitan, easy to get lost in, and none of that annoying language thing one had to deal with in just about any other place where he could be out of reach of the long Imperial arm.

It was sophisticated enough, however, that a man who was used to having the best and not being bothered about it had better show up with a nice bankroll; tipping and bribes blended rather seamlessly and any foreigner without cash became invisible. Or far _too_ visible to the wrong kind of authorities, who after all had to be seen doing their jobs on _someone._

That someone wasn't going to be him, so in Munich he visted a discreet financial establishment and withdrew about five million dollars in Euros, which at the current rate of exchange fit conveniently into the medium-expensive duffle he'd purchased from the shop next door. (And he was fairly sure the location of that shop right next to the discreet financial establishment was no coincidence, or at the very least that the purveyors of various hand-size bags did considerable slop-over business with the financial establishment's customers.)

He had a few hours left and did some more shopping, including a larger suitcase, before heading back to the airport. He'd left the Empire with a few changes of clothes, about eighty thousand in cash, disguised by an "accidentally broken" aftershave bottle in his bag well enough to defeat a random sniffer dog, most of whom in modern times were trained to either drugs (for the smaller cases) or hidden slaves (for the larger ones) anyway. Obviously rich people travelling medium-light drew much less attention from the security goons than rich people who looked like they were trying to haul out everything they owned, or any sort of less-rich people, who rarely had the money to travel internationally unless they were doing something the authorities found interesting.

Thus, shopping, with a few exasperated comments to random store clerks about the airline losing his bags. New clothes, some actual toiletries he planned to use, and some of that really good chocolate the Germans made would get him to India and let him take his time settling down.

He spent some time in a public bathroom (five euros!) taking the tags off of everything, pulling out pins and cardboard and tissue. It was all right to have things that looked nice, and even new, but it shouldn't look like he'd just bought them an hour ago, in case anyone looked; a story about lost baggage would work, but he'd just as soon not have to use it.

Back to the airport.

Fourteen long, exhausting hours later, Marton was settled into a small but reasonably comfortable guest house toward the back of a discreet resort property a short way outside Mumbai. It wasn't perfect but it'd make a decent base; from there he could find a more permanent place, something out of the way, with all the modern conveniences and no neighbors near enough to get nosy.

India was perfect; he was surprised there weren't whole colonies of ex-Imperials. Or hell, maybe there were -- it wasn't like there'd be a lot of advertising. But the atmosphere was a perfect blend of the cooperation bought by freely-spent money and the look-away distaste left over from the Imperial attempt a decade earlier to pressure India into converting to a slave economy. The Indians, who'd had enough and then some of life under foreign rule before (by the Brits, and wasn't that a crack-up considering how self-righteous they were now over the American-Imperial "outrages") had told the USNA where it could go and what it was welcome to do when it got there. Very politely, of course -- North America was still an economic market worth having access to, after all -- but they'd made it plain that another foreign slave system wasn't going to happen.

Relations had been open but cool since -- open enough that a USNA citizen with enough cash could come over and settle down with minimal hassles, but cool enough that extradition attempts on folks who hadn't caused any actual trouble in _India_ were politely ignored.

And if anyone from his past came to make trouble, well, the local authorities didn't much care what ex-pat Imperials did to each other either, so long as they didn't bother the locals or leave a mess in the streets, and Marton was willing to clean up his messes when necessary.

Perfect.

 

Kevin sat cross-legged on the floor, both hands wrapped around a mug of coffee. He wished it had something stronger in it -- brandy, scotch, anything. There was a movie on the set, something with revving engines and flashy explosions, but he wasn't paying attention.

Mr. Duncan had told him two days earlier that he'd sold him to Lord Neeson and that the guy's agent would be coming to pick him up that day, Wednesday. He hadn't said exactly when, though, and Kevin had been packed and ready to go since before his master had left for work that morning. Not that he had much to pack, just some clothes and a toothbrush and stuff, but still, he was _ready,_ so where the fuck was the agent? It was almost time for Mr. Duncan to come home and Kevin really didn't want to have to deal with him again; the last couple of days had been tense enough.

He'd actually thought that he and Mr. Duncan were getting along okay, that it might not be bad to stay. He should've known better; he must've gone temporarily nuts to think that an owner would, oh, maybe treat him like a human being, maybe think about what he'd been through and how he felt, maybe understand why he'd been kinda jumpy.

No matter how decent he'd seemed, Mr. Duncan was an owner and they were all assholes. The only question was how _much_ of an asshole an owner was.

Even then, he had to admit that Mr. Duncan wasn't _too_ much of an asshole. He'd known plenty of masters who'd have beaten him half dead for going behind their back. Hell, he'd been _owned_ by one or two of them, and he'd been beaten raw for less than that.

That was probably it, though. Mr. Duncan being pretty cool about him contacting Lord Neeson, once he'd found out about it, had fooled Kevin into thinking he might be _totally_ cool. That'd been stupid, and Kevin should've known better. _Had_ known better before he'd let himself start to relax, but he'd gotten a reminder and would remember next time.

The doorbell rang and Kevin jerked up, startled, and almost spilled his coffee. He set the mug down, carefully -- if he stained the carpet on his last day, Mr. Duncan would probably think he'd done it deliberately, out of spite, and he'd put some shitty comment in Kevin's provenance file.

He walked over to the door and stopped for a few seconds to take some deep breaths. Then he smirked at nobody in particular and thought, Be a crack-up if I'm all freaking out and it's Jehovah's Witnesses or something.

He opened the door and there was Lord Neeson's agent -- the way-too-old body-slave, Johnny, carrying the same briefcase he'd had last time.

"Hey," he said. "Is Mr. Duncan home?" He looked Kevin over but didn't show much reaction. Kevin felt his hackles rising; those eyes on him seemed to be checking him out and dismissing him, like he didn't meet some standard.

"No, he's still at work."

The other slave nodded. "That's all right. Everything's done and filed, you're legally Lord Neeson's property. I have a copy of the certificate of transfer, but he doesn't have to sign it, so I can just leave it for him. Are you ready to go?"

"Uh, yeah, I guess." That was it? Hi, let's go? Okay, whatever. "Let me get my stuff."

Kevin turned to go to his room and Johnny followed him inside. Kevin heard the snap of a briefcase opening and the rustle of papers as he headed up the stairs.

His clothes and stuff were all stuffed into a couple of plastic grocery sacks, since he didn't have a suitcase or anything. He grabbed them and left his room without a look backward.

When he got back down, there was an official looking paper on the coffee table and Johnny was standing there with the briefcase and a look of perfect patience.

"That's it," Kevin said. "I'm ready if you are."

Johnny paused to give him a quick, searching look, then said, "We could wait for Mr. Duncan to come home, if you want to say goodbye? I already checked into the hotel, so there's no rush on my end."

Kevin shook his head so hard his hair swung down into his eyes. "No, that's fine. Let's just take off."

Johnny nodded. "Didn't think so, but I wanted to ask. Let's go then." He headed for the door. Kevin followed, made sure the door was set to lock and closed it behind him.

He trailed Johnny down to a rental car, nothing fancy, a mid-size Ford with a few miles on it, and hopped in. They drove downtown to the Imperial Plaza, a pretty swanky place.

"You're staying here by yourself?" Kevin couldn't help staring around some as they walked through the lobby. He'd been to similar places before with his old owners, but he'd never been the kind of body-slave who did a lot of travelling on his own, and wouldn't have expected his owner to pay for this kind of plush just for a slave.

"Nope. You're staying with me." He got raised eyebrow from Johnny. Smart-ass "Our master always stays here when he's in the LA area. They know him, and me, and they're used to having body-slaves and agents stay here. If someone tries to harass us, the staff will intervene."

"Eventually?" Kevin asked.

"Eventually," Johnny agreed. "It's better than a lot of places, though, and Lord Neeson won't stand for other people messing with his slaves."

They stepped into the elevator and Johnny pressed twenty-two. The door closed and they were alone. Johnny gave Kevin a hard look and said, "Lord Neeson is a good man to belong to, if you have to belong to someone. I'm not saying he's easy or indulgent -- if you fuck up you'll get thrashed and you'll remember it for a while. But he's fair. He won't beat on you just because he's in a bad mood. You'll get a good bed, good clothes, and great food, and if you get sick or hurt he'll get you to a doctor right away. If someone tries to mess with you, whether it's a stranger or a business associate or another slave or whatever, he'll take care of it."

"Right, I get it, he's a fucking saint. I'm sure all his slaves dance around him in circles throwing flowers." Kevin leaned back against the side of the elevator with his arms crossed over his chest and smirked at Johnny, 'cause seriously, the guy was a suck-up or an idiot.

"No, he's _not_ a fucking saint." And Johnny was right there in Kevin's face, both forearms leaning against the wall on either side of Kevin's head, their noses almost touching while he glared right into Kevin's eyes, and the fact that Kevin had a good three inches on him didn't seem to matter at all. "But he's a good man and a good master, as good as they come. It sounds like you've had some real fuckwads before, and I get that. I did too, before he bought me. Lord Neeson isn't an asshole, though, and he doesn't deserve any shit. What's more, he won't _tolerate_ any shit.

"He's got enough shit going on already, he doesn't need any more from you. If you think you can manipulate him, or that you can set yourself up by fucking over any of the other slaves, you'd better think again. When he finds out he'll stomp on you good. And if I find out about it before he does, _I'll_ stomp on you before I drag your ass over to him.

"He's fair to all of us and gives us good lives, as good as they can be if you're a slave and start out with 'suck' as a default setting, and I _won't_ tolerate anyone fucking with that."

"Back off!" Kevin shoved Johnny away hard and scowled down at him. "I don't know who pissed in your wheaties, but if you think I'll just stand here and take shit from _you--_ "

Johnny took a step forward and grabbed Kevin's wrist, and half a second later he was pressed up against the side of the car again, face-first this time, with his arm twisted up behind his back and his shoulder feeling like it was about to pop out. "You'll do exactly that and keep your mouth shut and behave."

Johnny tightened his grip for a moment and Kevin jerked up onto his toes. "Okay, okay, fuck! What the hell, man?"

"What the hell is you," Johnny snarled into his ear. "You're a fucking judas. You've already screwed over a bunch of other slaves when you were helping that Csokas guy run his racket. You _helped_ him convince a bunch of stolen kids that they were crazy, messed up, that no one would believe them. You made it easier for him to steal and torture and sell them. And you didn't even believe he'd ever actually give you that carrot he dangled -- you said so. But you helped him anyway. You're an asshole and a liar and a traitor. I don't like you, I don't trust you, and you get zero slack from me."

Johnny gave his arm another jerk, then let go and stepped back. The elevator slid to a stop. He said, "This is our floor," and walked out as though nothing had happened.

Kevin scowled at his retreating back and followed.


	34. Chapter 34

Liam filed away Thewlis's message on his computer and sat back to think. The rat was running, and the hole he was headed for was one where Liam didn't have any established contacts. He knew people in Germany, yes, but the chances of assassinating someone in an airport between gates, on less than a day's notice, were low to nil. And besides, Liam wanted to be there at the end.

He had to know someone whose reach extended into India. There weren't as many as there'd been in the past; when it became clear that the USNA's attempt to get India under its thumb by pressuring them to join the slave economy was going to fail, a lot of American businesses had pulled out of South Asia, fearing that the tension would boil over into war. Wars tended to cause hostile governments to seize enemy-owned assets within their territory, and that was never good for business. Liam's father had pulled out for just that reason, and had complained about the losses he'd taken in the process for years afterward.

Liam typed up a brief request for assistance with some business in Mumbai and sent it out to everyone on his list of theft victims. He didn't dare include any details over the net, but hopefully a glance at the TO: list would clue the recipients in as to what he needed help _for._ He turned his attention to other work while keeping an ear out for his e-mail signal, which came just over an hour later.

Lord Smith was similarly concise.

***

I can get that done. Send whatever you've got and I'll shoot it to my guy in Mumbai. What are we doing when we find him?

***

"Excellent," Liam muttered to himself.

***

Here's the info I got from Thewlis today, plus a photo only a few years old. Shouldn't be tough for a smart local to find a white man in an Indian city these days.

I want to know where he is. Once we've got him located, I'll be going over myself to wrap this up.

***

Works for me. Tell him hi from the rest of us, will you?

I see we still have thieves working the area. Cutting off the head's not going to slow them down.

***

I'll be sure to pass on everyone's greetings.

We cut off two heads, and once their inside contact has given me the last piece of info I need, I fully plan to convince him that continuing his activities would be inadvisable, so this particular group is likely dead in the water.

You're right, though, that it's still a problem. I'm sure there were others; this group preferred selling through "proper" channels and only went elsewhere as a last resort. There were enough items of interest in that one incident I mentioned at the meeting that there have to be other suppliers. I'd love to go after every one of them, but ending up there myself won't help anyone. All we can do, realistically, is be aware of the problem and take precautions with our assets.

***

Sucks, man. I've been keeping Tisha and the kids close to home, but they're getting restless. I definitely need to look into a bodyguard. I'm not going to keep my kids locked up whenever Jada and I don't have time to take them out ourselves.

***

If you're seriously looking for security, I recently met a man named Duncan down your way who's in that line. I checked him out and he has a solid reputation, and he seemed like a good man when we spoke. Here's his contact info if you're interested.

***

I'll check him out, thanks.

***

 

Thewlis turned over and stifled a moan. Even beaten, broken and drugged, he still had his instincts intact, and one was not to make any noise when he first woke up, especially in a strange place. He looked around, as much as he could without actually moving his head, and eventually he remembered where he was.

Some number of days ago, he'd dragged himself out of the burning wreck of Marty's garage and driven away through sheer force of will. He'd squinted into the night, trying to keep his concussion-fuzzy eyes on the dark road. The dizziness hadn't helped either, to say nothing of the headache, or the stabbing pain in his side where it'd turned out two ribs were broken. He'd known he couldn't be caught at the site of the explosion, though, nor anywhere near it, nor could his car be found there, so just crawling off into the bushes somewhere was out, even if he had any illusions that he wouldn't be found.

As it was, he'd been lucky as hell to get away and he still wasn't sure he'd gotten out clean. Marty's place was far enough from the nearest police station that no one had shown up to catch him; there mustn't have been any patrol cars nearby either. Not that Thewlis imagined that wide patch of road paid much in taxes, casinos or no; it wasn't exactly shocking that government services were iffy.

What _was_ shocking was that his luck had held. Assuming it had.

He'd driven west on fifteen, expecting flashing lights behind him every mile of the way, and finally made Barstow, to a neighborhood where he'd heard one could contact a discreet doctor. The man wouldn't do anything illegal, but he'd respect a patient's need to be careful and to stay off the books.

Which was, of course, illegal in and of itself, but the good doctor wouldn't do anything _else_ illegal.

Thewlis had parked in a dingy lot, then walked up the street and into a bar. Ordering a certain special got him escorted upstairs, then across a series of rooftops between flapping laundry and climbing vines and ramshackle shelters, then down another set of stairs to a windowless room where he was told to wait. He'd fallen asleep on the bare floor, propped in a corner.

Some time later, a reasonably gentle hand had shaken him awake, led him to a garage and helped him into a car. "We're going to a poker party," the driver had said in a low voice. "Try to look like you're heading for a good time when we get there."

He'd nodded and fallen asleep again.

When they got to the house with the poker party, which was also where the doctor lived, he'd gone in, managing a grimace and a wave. Another car that arrived at about the same time had four men in it, one of whom was leaning on another. "Drunk already!" one of the men called, and they'd all laughed. In the light of the entry way, though, once the front door was closed, the "drunk" man looked to be suffering from overindulgence in gunfire rather than alcohol.

Three other men were already there, and five of them sat down to play a noisy game of poker in the living room while Thewlis and the man who'd been shot were led down to the basement. The doctor, a thin, balding man with permanent stress lines in his face, had checked them both, then helped Thewlis into the work room first.

That'd been... Thewlis actually didn't know how many nights ago. He'd been drugged and sleeping ever since, with brief waking periods to eat, drink, and stagger to the toilet. The doctor, whose name Thewlis had never actually learned and probably never would, had told him he'd live. The man who'd been shot hadn't.

As near as he could figure, all those empty cardboard boxes had saved his life. Light and incredibly crushable, they'd absorbed enough of the blast that he hadn't ended up splattered across the lawn. Then the stark, panic terror he'd felt at the thought of being caught at the blast site or found on the road by the authorities had jolted him with enough adrenaline to keep moving; looked like the government was good for something after all.

Once he was more awake, he shifted slowly, tensing only the muscles absolutely required to roll over onto his side. Regular nursing care wasn't an option at that particular clinic, and he felt bed sores forming on his ass. They weren't quite as bad on his hips, so he propped himself up facing the room and tried to relax again.

Focusing his thoughts through the scattered, swooping fuzziness, to say nothing of the headache which still hung on despite whatever drugs he was on, took considerable concentration. He pushed the pain aside and ignored it in favor of sorting out his memories and trying to come up with some sort of useful analysis.

Depending on how thoroughly the house had burned, there might be more or less evidence of his presence. The police would know that _someone_ had been there; he'd left the safe open and empty. They might change their mind about that interpretation once they found out that Marty'd skipped the country, but for a while, at least, it'd point to a burglary.

The scattered papers and things outside the bathroom window might be another clue to an intrusion. Again, it depended on how throughly the place had burned, along with how much of a mess the firefighters made when they stomped around. Fire hoses could blow small objects quite a distance.

Thewlis thought about that. The house was small enough that a hose aimed in from one side could probably blast something out the other side, if the walls collapsed, but it'd depend which angle or angles the firefighters approached from. He had no way of knowing that, so the things in the yard outside the bathroom might be considered another piece of evidence of his presence.

His footprints in the dust would be gone, and likewise any fibers which might've fallen off his clothes despite his precautions. Unless he'd tracked dirt from a California beach or forest, any evidence of that sort could also be attributed to the firefighters' boots. He'd been lurking around Marty's place long enough that anything on his shoes was probably local anyway.

Everything he'd done to avoid leaving evidence at the house would be pointless, though, along with the fire itself -- a stroke of fortune from that point of view, despite his slightly mangled body -- if the police were smart enough to look around and discover that he'd been watching Marty's house on and off for weeks now. He hadn't used his real name, of course, but there were locals who could describe him -- starting with that clerk he'd spun the photographer story to -- and his face probably showed up on hours of surveillance film, in stores and parking lots and traffic cameras.

He wondered whether they'd accuse him of setting the bomb.

Speaking of which, it was clear Marty'd set it himself. Thewlis wondered whether that meant he actually knew he was being watched, or whether he was just being thorough.

If he'd known he was being watched then the bomb had likely been set in hopes of catching the watcher. If he'd just meant to be thorough then the bomb had been meant to destroy evidence. It'd been on a timer, _and_ there'd been a wire on the only box which hadn't been empty, so it'd been set to go off either way -- slow if left alone, or quick to catch a searcher.

Thewlis scowled and wondered what'd been there that he'd missed. He hadn't even gotten away with the contents of the banker's box -- even the contents of the safe, likely trash, was beyond his reach.

All he could hope was that some evidence of Marty's business had survived, and that the authorities found it. There was a slim hope that if they set off down that trail, they'd leave focus on Marty and leave anyone else -- like Thewlis himself -- alone. A completely unrealistic hope, mind, but it was all he had to hang on to at that point.

 

Within a week of beginning body-slave training, Orlando was wishing he had the drugged fuzziness back again.

He'd always known he was lucky in his owner. Master Liam was affectionate and protective, and Orlando'd been willing to take Johnny's word, on an intellectual level, that most slaves -- even body-slaves -- weren't as indulged as he was. As he'd been. Real body-slave training was rubbing his nose in just how spoiled he'd been, though. He wasn't ready for any of it.

Within that first week, he'd been fucked by more people than he'd known by name in all his life before being stolen. Now that it was part of their training, anyone who worked for Commerce was allowed to indulge whenever a slave wasn't actively in lessons, and most of their lessons were about being fucked too, with additional instruction in pleasing both genders by hand and orally. The only restriction to the guards and lower-level staff was a line drawn at injuries. Serious injuries, that was; bruises, scrapes and minor cuts didn't count.

The only people _not_ allowed to use him however they liked were the other slaves. They were still off limits to one another, because, as a trainer had emphasized, their bodies didn't belong to them and weren't for their own use, whether alone or with another slave. Their duty was to keep ready at all times to serve their owner or anyone their owner bid them to serve.

The restriction against masturbating didn't make any sense for the female slaves, who could perform just as well right after an orgasm as before, but then making sense wasn't terribly high in Commerce's priorities.

But when they weren't in class, they were being used casually, and if that kept them up all night they were still expected to perform to the trainers' exacting standards. After all, their owner or his guests might need them all night some time, and that would be no excuse to laze around in bed all the next day.

By the end of the first week, Orlando was numb to mere fucking, and his mouth would automatically start sucking on anything pushed into it.

When they'd started on some of the more unusual kinks, one of the trainers had said nothing would ever be as bad as training, that they'd be able to properly appreciate their new owner, and do whatever was bid of them with a cheerful attitude because compared with their training, anything an owner was likely to want would seem tame. Orlando wasn't convinced that was true, either that the comparison would turn him into a cheerful little fuck-toy or that there weren't owners out there who could make life just as bad as a trainer. He didn't give it more than a passing moment's thought, though; most of the time his attention was focused on the now, on whatever stimulus he was aware of at that particular moment and whatever the proper response was that had been or was being conditioned into him.

Four more weeks. Orlando couldn't imagine getting through it, but he had to. Hell, they'd _make_ him; he doubted very much that suicide was a viable option in this place, no matter how much he wished for it in the near future.


	35. Chapter 35

Thewlis had been out of contact for ten days, since sending the message about Csokas leaving the country. Ten days had been long enough for Liam to go from annoyed to worried; he hadn't gone so long without a report since hiring the man, and it'd never taken more than a few hours to get a response to an e-mail or phone message.

He'd considered putting in a missing persons report, but only briefly. Given what they'd been up to, drawing the attention of the authorities could only make things worse.

Ten days had also been long enough for Lord Smith's contact in Mumbai to have found Csokas. It took four more days for Liam to make travel arrangements and get things set to keep going without him for a little while, but he wasn't willing to just wait around any longer than that. Thewlis was a good man to have at your side in a tough spot, calm and steady. Liam was honest enough to admit to himself that Thewlis's calm was a good balancing influence for when he himself saw red and his throttle stuck on full blast, which he'd been doing too often during the hunt for Orlando. If Thewlis wasn't available, though, then he wasn't, and once Liam was ready to go, that was it, he left.

He had a story ready about travelling to India to make some informal inquiries about doing business with one of the companies his father had sold when things had looked to be unstable between India and the Empire; he actually had an appointment with one of the directors, although he wasn't particularly expecting anything to come of it. No one asked, though, beyond the usual "Business or pleasure?" so it seemed no one was paying any attention to him.

Or maybe he was supposed to think that.

Liam went on the way he always did, assuming there was someone nearby watching and recording.

He got some work done on the flight over and managed to sleep in his seat for the last few hours after changing planes in Tel Aviv. Once they landed in Mumbai, it took a little over an hour to retrieve his baggage and get a car to his hotel, where he picked up his room key and a package, then was shown to his room. About twenty minutes later, when he'd barely had time to unpack, someone knocked on his door.

Expecting a maid or bellhop offering some sort of service, he was taken aback for a second to find a white man in a western suit slouching in the hallway, looking him over with a skeptical smirk.

"Lord Neeson?"

"Yes?" The man rubbed him the wrong way right off and Liam gave him a hard stare. "What can I do for you?"

"We have a common interest and a mutual acquaintance -- Dave Thewlis?"

Liam opened the door wider and stood aside. "Come in." It was more a command than an invitation, but Liam wasn't ready to relax and make nice yet; the man hadn't even offered his name and Liam's hackles were still up. He closed the door after his visitor. "So, who are you and what common interest do you imagine we might have?"

"The name's Nick Cage. We've been in the same room a few times, but our usual interests don't coincide. In this case, though, we're both eager to see Marty Csokas get what's coming to him." He paused, then cocked an eyebrow and added, "At least, I assume that's why you're here?"

Liam crossed his arms and leaned against the wall, unwilling to give Cage any mental advantage by sitting down and having to look up at him. "What's your interest in Csokas? Has he stolen something from you as well?"

Cage sent him a sardonic smile. "Yeah, you might say that. I've recently found out that he appropriated some ideas some friends and I came up with when we were all in college together, and has been using them in the service of goals I find abhorrent." He stopped talking and just looked at Liam, as though waiting for something.

The something came within a very few seconds. "You're an abolitionist." Liam said the last word with a distasteful twist to his mouth, and his already tense back stiffened even more.

Cage smirked at him, but otherwise didn't respond at all to the contempt Liam was sure he was radiating. "It's something I was into in college, along with some friends. We made fantastical plans and tossed ideas around, and of course nothing came of it. The system's too entrenched right now, and the government's too strong and controls too much of... everything. But philosophically, yeah, I'm an abolitionist. And the fact that Marty's using our plans and ideas to steal slaves just so he can resell them himself for a profit makes me want to have a long talk with him. Or maybe a short talk. It'll be pretty intense, though."

Liam huffed out a short laugh against his will. "I imagine it will. I get him first, though."

"Maybe we'll flip a coin," Cage retorted.

"He took my boy," Liam said with a hard stare. "If I'm in a good mood, maybe I won't kill him and you'll have something left to have your discussion with."

Cage started to scowl, then laughed. "Hard-ass bastard."

"You're damn right," Liam shot back. "And with reason. You remember that and I'll let you come along." He felt startled for a moment at the offer even as he made it, but he pushed it aside. His gut reactions were usually right, and he'd feel better with some back-up. He'd rather have had Thewlis with him, but Thewlis was still missing and Cage was there, and looked like he could handle himself.

He might be one of those brainless abolitionists, but his immediate goal seemed to be the same as Liam's, which meant they could work together for a while. Good enough.

That reminded him, though, and he asked, "Have you heard from Thewlis lately?"

Cage shook his head. "Not in the last few days. He sent me a note about Marty being here and that you'd probably be showing up yourself, and that was it."

"Is that unusual?" Liam asked. "To go that long without hearing from him?"

He got another shrug. "Dave and I aren't really close. He contacted me about this situation with Marty a little while back. The methods used to pull the slaves out of the system made him think that someone we knew back when might be behind it. Before that I hadn't heard from him since college."

Well, that didn't help. Although it was somewhat reassuring to know that at least Thewlis didn't make a habit of associating with abolitionists. "It's unusual for me," he said. "He's been good about communicating since I hired him, but I haven't heard from him since the day Csokas left the Empire."

"You've been worried about him?"

"Of course I have," Liam snapped. "Is that so amazing?"

"No, not really."

Despite the reassurance, Liam still got the impression that Cage was smirking to himself, although his actual expression was neutral. He felt a strong desire to do something violent, but fought the impulse down. Csokas -- it's about Csokas, he reminded himself. He'd been stifling his anger for so long, and it was going to have a valid outlet soon, but the closer he got to his goal the more difficult it got not to jump the gun. Cage might not be the sort of person he'd usually want to do business with, but he was there to help and they had a common cause. Keep that in mind, maintain, don't thrash the abolitionist.

He felt a smirk of his own form and turned his back on Cage, heading over to the desk and mentally dismissing their brangle. "I know where he's staying -- address, map, photos. I have an unrelated appointment tomorrow morning -- I have to do some business, justify being here in case anyone is paying attention. I'd planned to go see Csokas tomorrow night, then fly back out the next afternoon."

"Couldn't get a morning flight? Or a red-eye?" There was that not-quite-mocking tone again, like an invisible stick poking at Liam's ribs.

"I just as soon not seem to be in a rush to leave," he replied in an even voice. "You can do as you like, of course."

Cage followed Liam across the room and held out a hand toward the pile of papers on the desk. "May I see?"

Liam scooped everything up and slipped it back into its folder. "Tomorrow. Come back here at six; we'll have something to eat and make plans then."

"Tomorrow?" Cage asked with a pointed scowl. "It'd be nice if I knew what was up before we went."

"You will -- tomorrow, before we go." Liam crossed his arms and looked down his nose at Cage. "He's mine first," he repeated. "I'd prefer nothing unfortunate happen to him before I've had a chance for a conversation."

"Right," Cage drawled. "You know, I'm really glad I don't work for you."

"So am I, Mr. Cage. I'll see you tomorrow evening."

 

The massage lessons weren't too bad. Orlando's hands and arms ached by the end of each lesson, making him wish for hot water and rest, but at least he'd been taught most of the techniques before, when he was working with Mr. Travers. And any break from the actual sex training was a good thing.

He got a review of serving, both intimately and in company -- fetching drinks and food, small items and larger items, giving kneeling massages and manicures. They got lessons in giving unobtrusive blowjobs, silent and still enough (at least on the slaves' part) not to disrupt a meeting or a quiet meal.

Doing hair and makeup was completely new to Orlando; Master Liam had never wanted that level of fussing, and the Mistress hadn't wanted Orlando serving her personally at all during the short time they'd been in the same household. It was interesting, and might've been fun if they'd had more than four days to absorb everything.

Weirdly enough, learning to do the kinds of things a woman owner would or might want, both sexually and otherwise, made Orlando feel a little less panicky over the thought of being eventually sold. When Master Liam had married he'd been nervous enough at the thought that the new mistress might've wanted him to serve her in ways he'd never done or learned. That was one less thing to worry about now, even if it was a small thing, relative to other... things.

About a week in they started furniture practice, learning to stretch out or fold up into the shape of a footstool or a side table or a lampstand. That took intermittent practice for longer and longer periods, learning to relax through cramping muscles without tipping out of position, or moving a light away from where their master wanted it, or shifting a saucer away from where master was going to put his cup.

They were working their way through a long list of kinks, making sure the body-slaves could perform up to standard no matter what their owners wanted. Pain training had begun relatively light, and it'd taken a couple of weeks before they'd started pushing the boundaries of what Master Liam had done. Of course, having some grim-faced trainer wielding the flogger or crop or cane while scrutinizing him for any hint of resistence, or an unpleasing posture or expression was very different from having his master beat him while telling Orlando how beautiful he was and how much Orlando's eager submission pleased him.

He hadn't expected it to be _that_ different -- more like eating with someone you didn't know, or even someone you disliked, compared with eating with someone you loved. The food was the same, right?

Well, not so much. The "company" made a huge difference, it turned out. Master Liam had taught him about pain himself, rather than leaving it to Mr. Travers, and Orlando's adoration for his master had made it easy to find that place inside where the pain was just another way of stimulating his body, another path that led to pleasure. With the trainers, though, that path was missing and being beaten was something to be endured, not pleasurable at all.

Although, would he really _want_ to respond to a trainer the way he had to Master Liam? His gut-level answer was no, that he'd be ashamed to give himself up that completely to anyone else, especially to someone who saw him as just a _thing_ to be whipped -- literally -- into proper shape. Letting down his barriers that much, making himself so completely vulnerable, seemed insane.

As time went on, though, it mattered less and less. He was taught to simulate the ecstatic noises and writhing under a whip whether he felt them or not, to beg for more wax, a thicker sound, another weight. He also learned to accept a smack or worse some fraction of the time after pleading for more of whatever a trainer was doing, because, they said, some masters didn't like slaves who begged, no matter how prettily, and so they trained him to take a smack without flinching and beg pardon and spend the rest of the lesson accepting in silence whatever was done to his body. Then the next day he had to beg again, for more lashes or a bigger plug or more piss, and wonder whether this simulated master would appreciate it or not.

After two weeks and four days of that, the beatings got to a point beyond where Master Liam had ever gone, and Orlando, who'd been doing well relative to the rest of the class, started earning extra lashes along with everyone else, for hesitating when he'd been commanded to walk up and position himself for binding, for flinching when he'd been commanded to stay still, for screaming when he'd been commanded to stay quiet.

He endured, because there wasn't anything else he could do.


	36. Chapter 36

Cage was two minutes late the next evening. It was long enough to be disrespectful, but little enough that it might be just a difference in watch settings. Liam despised that kind of game-playing, but he was used to ignoring it. If an adversary was trying to get an emotional reaction, giving it to him would be stupid.

Liam let Cage in with a civil nod and led him to a small table under the window where a spice-scented meal had been spread only a few minutes earlier. They didn't bother pretending to be pleasant or friendly; Liam spread out the contents of his file on Csokas and they both shovelled down food while going over it.

Despite his abrasive attitude and wrong-headed ideas, when he buckled down to work, Cage had some good suggestions to make about approaching their mutual goal. By the time they finished it was just full dark -- time to leave.

There was still plenty of traffic in the streets, so they didn't stand out the way they would have if they'd waited till the small hours of the morning. At quarter till eight, they were just two more men on their way to an evening of leisure.

Liam drove his rental car to within a quarter mile of Csokas's bolthole, then pulled over in a well lit spot and parked. He scanned the locals and spotted a group of boys hanging out, as boys always did and always had when the opportunity presented itself. He chose the one the others seemed to be orbiting, a boy in a neatly wrapped turban and a T-shirt with some Bollywood actress's face on it, and called, "Young man! You, in the yellow shirt. I'll pay you if you'll watch my car for an hour."

The young man smirked at him, said something to his friends that got them all laughing, then sauntered over. "Sahib needs service?"

Liam knew he was being made fun of, but under the circumstances he didn't particularly care so long as he got what he wanted. He pulled out a wad of bills -- pre-counted earlier so he wouldn't have to fumble with money -- and said, "Here, twenty thousand rupees. I'll give you the same when I come back if my car's still here and in good shape." It was a lot of money -- almost a thousand in imperial dollars -- but all Liam cared about was the car still being there when he and Cage were finished. The young man was still smirking, but he took the money and his friends looked eager.

"One hour, sahib. I have an appointment then, so if you're late then your car will have to protect itself."

"It's good to be punctual," Liam retorted with a smirk of his own. He added, "Thank you," then turned and strode off up the road, Cage next to him.

"Wow," said Cage, "you really have a knack for fostering good will and friendly relations with people from other cultures. You should teach classes or something."

"He wants money, I want the car to be there when we need it," Liam said flatly. "We both got what we wanted; that's how business works."

He heard a snort from Cage, but they walked on without speaking further and got to their destination a few minutes later.

Csokas's place was on the outskirts of huge, sprawling Mumbai, set back behind lush foliage and a high wall and invisible from the street. That suited Liam just fine. Satellite photos on the net had shown that the wall around the property was broken down in several places; he and Cage entered through one of the breaks, off a dark footpath.

Lord Smith's contact had insisted that there was no significant security around the property, that it was just a a rental estate like any other, popular with foreigners; most of the neighbors, when they were in residence, were businesspeople from Indonesia, China and Korea, who travelled to oversee companies, partners, deals. That there were no guards, cameras or alarms, no motion sensors or laser beams, not even a dog running loose inside the fence.

Liam hadn't believed the report, of course. A man who'd made his fortune stealing from rich nobles used to getting their way and crushing whoever opposed them _had_ to have taken some precautions. Careful inspection of the perimeter, the wall, and the gap in the wall turned up nothing, however. The barely-visible path, a scant thinning of the dense foliage between the gap and the house, was only that -- a path hardly anyone ever used. Taking care not to make too much noise nor cause too much swaying of branches over their heads slowed the two men down, as did searching for lenses and trip-wires and microphones and sensor plates which didn't exist.

By the time they came within a few meters of the house, Liam was convinced that Csokas was insanely confident. Or maybe he was just that certain that he'd gotten away clean, that no one would be after him, that he was perfectly free to enjoy the rest of his life in luxury.

Pity, that.

Except not really. Liam was looking forward to teaching him just how mistaken he was. And he was fairly sure that Cage was more than willing to explain any details Liam himself missed during the first go-round.

Cage leaned in until their shoulders were pressed together and whispered, "Too easy."

Liam nodded, tapped Cage on the arm, and pointed around toward the other side of the house. Cage nodded and vanished into the darkness.

After a count of fifty, Liam stood up straight, stepped out of the cover of the foliage, and strode up onto the wide, covered porch, to the glass-paned front entrance. It was a pair of tall double doors, flanked by tall windows in the same style. They were all topped by fan lights. A dim glow shone through the glass, and from up close Liam could see a darkened entryway, with light shining through a doorway at the far side of the entrance hall.

The house was quiet, with no sound of conversation, or even music or television. Nothing indicated that Cage had been discovered. Well, if Csokas was that insanely confident, the direct approach would likely work.

Liam rang the bell.

He'd counted twenty-two seconds before he heard footsteps approaching. A dark silhouette appeared in the doorway, paused, then approached and opened the door just a few inches. "Yes? What can I do for you?" The voice was low and pleasant, the man himself tall -- within a couple of inches of Liam's own six-four -- and slender but solid. He looked like a perfectly normal person, the sort of man you'd do business with, have a drink with. Liam wasn't impressed; he could project exactly that same harmless aura himself if he cared to, and it meant exactly nothing.

"Mr. Marton Csokas?" he asked, putting on a friendly and slightly self-conscious smile. "One of the concierges at my hotel said you'd moved here recently -- from the Empire -- and I'm having some difficulties with a business deal and asked about someone who might be able to give me some advice about how things work here, so he gave me your name and directions...." Liam let his voice trail off, looked away for a moment, then back at Csokas and shrugged. "I realize I'm a stranger asking a favor, but I thought maybe for a fellow Imperial, you might be willing to give me an hour or so of your time, just explain a few things? I'm sorry if I'm intruding."

There, he thought with an internal snort. You're not the only one who can play harmless.

"And you are...?" Csokas asked.

"Oh, I'm sorry! I don't usually-- I mean, this is just so, you know." Liam shrugged and laughed at himself, taking a step forward, making sure his sturdy shoe was over the threshold. He'd spotted another dark figure approaching over Csokas's shoulder, and forced himself to stay relaxed. "Neeson," he said. "Liam Neeson."

Csokas immediately stiffened in clear recognition, scowled, and tried to slam the door. What he thought it'd do to have the mostly-glass door closed instead of opened Liam didn't know, and didn't particularly care. The door bounced against his foot and he moved forward, but Csokas was faster. He backed up several steps and jerked a pistol out of his jacket pocket.

"How the fuck did you find me?" he snarled. His lips were tight with anger and agression, but there was fear in his darting eyes. Without waiting for an answer, he said, "Never mind, I don't care. I can move again -- I have enough money to go anywhere I want!"

He extended the pistol, gripping it with both hands, and Liam made himself stand and hold Csokas's gaze. One, two, three....

Cage slipped up behind Csokas and slammed his doubled fists into the man's temple like swinging a sledgehammer or a baseball bat. The pistol went off with a thundering BAM! that blew splinters out of the doorjamb just past Liam's shoulder, and Csokas collapsed down onto the tiled floor.

Liam let out a breath, careful to do it quietly. He wanted to tear a strip off of Cage, but the man's smirk was fully in place and Liam knew he was just waiting for an explosive reaction. Damned if Liam would give him the satisfaction.

He stepped forward to where Cage had Csokas mostly pinned on the floor, planted a heavy foot on the one wrist that was still free and flailing, and commented, "I don't suppose it would've bothered you if that'd hit me."

"Not a bit," said Cage with a cheery grin. "Marty's hands on the gun and all, it would've been unfortunate but not my problem."

"You're a cold bastard, Cage."

"From you I'll take that as a compliment," Cage retorted.

Keeping his attention on Csokas, Liam took a pair of leather gloves out of his jacket pocket. It was too warm to be able to wear them without drawing attention, but he needed them then. He pulled them on, one at a time. They were heavy enough to provide some protection, but light enough not to impede movement. Specifically, the kind of movement required for fingers to curl into a fist.

Csokas was squinting up at Cage, peering into the dim as though there were something wrong with his vision. Likely there was, after a blow like that. "Nick? Fuck, is that you?"

"Sure is, Marty." Cage gave Csokas a smirk and kicked him hard in the hip. Csokas gasped out a pained noise. Cage's grin widened. "You know, I didn't think you were even paying attention when we had meetings at our place back when. All you ever did was bitch that we were disturbing you while you tried to study."

"At least I did something with it," Csokas retorted. His voice was tight with pain, but he was clearly trying to put on a good show. He jerked his wrist out from under Liam's shoe and scooted back until he could prop himself in a seated position against the wall. "More than you bleeding-heart whiners ever did."

"Maybe you're right. Of course, we wouldn't exactly advertise it if we ever had."

Liam broke up the class reunion by grabbing the front of Csokas's shirt and hauling him halfway to his feet. Without any warning, he landed a hard, precise punch to the man's nose; he felt cartilage crushing and bone breaking under his fist. Csokas gurgled out a pained cry as he crashed back down to the floor, with an intermediary bounce off the wall.

"Wha' you wan?! Fuh, teh me wha' you wan!" Csokas had one hand on his blood-spattered nose and the other flailing in front of him, as though trying to fend Liam off.

Liam said, "I want you never to have touched my boy." He kept his voice under tight control, cold and hard. He knew that if he let his roiling emotions out, unleashed the lava-hot fury bubbling inside him, he'd start shouting his anger and that would attract too much attention. Control, always. "I can't have that, though," he continued, "so I'm going to have to settle for making you regret it very strongly." He hauled Csokas up again and buried a fist deep in the man's diaphragm. Csokas bent at a sharp angle around the fist in his midsection, every molecule of air shooting out of his lungs. He couldn't make any noise after that one sharp whuffing sound.

Still cold and methodical, Liam slammed him against the wall, then crushed the man's genitals with a knee.

Csokas opened his mouth to scream, but still didn't have any air. He crumpled to the floor once more, clutching himself and gasping for breath.

"Fuck, man, leave some for me." There was no snark or attitude in Cage's voice; he sounded shocked, and Liam doubted he let that show very often.

"You'll get your turn." Liam didn't bother looking at Cage while he spoke, but kicked Csokas hard in the face with a sturdy, thick-soled boot, adding more broken bones and teeth to the already crushed nose.

Another yank upright, and then Liam aimed a jab right into a kidney, then again into the other one. A third punch aimed at Csokas's stomach grazed off a rib and Liam felt pain radiating through his hand. He ignored it and kept going.

Csokas couldn't speak anymore, barely had breath to whimper. Liam pulled back a fist, the leather of his glove smeared with gore, but before he could get in another blow, Cage grabbed his wrist.

"Neeson! Enough! Come on, man!"

Liam's head whipped around and he glared at Cage, jerking his hand away. "I'll decide when I'm finished."

"You're gonna kill him!"

"That was the idea, yes. Did you want another shot at him before we finish it?"

Cage just stared. His gaze was stark and expressionless. He shook his head, slowly. "Punishment is one thing, but murder is something else," he said, his voice low and tight and neutral. "Enough already."

"I take care of what belongs to me." Liam glared at Cage, a hard, assessing stare, calculating whether he was going to become another obstacle. "My boy is in a processing center right now, at this exact minute, getting raped and beaten and taught to eat shit with a smile on his face, or whatever the fuck they teach body-slaves in those places. I don't give a god damn whether _you_ think this asswipe has had enough. It's not your choice, I don't want your opinion, and if you try to interfere I'll take you down too before finishing up with him. Am I going to need to do that?"

There was a long silence, and Liam tensed -- surprised that it was possible for him to tighten up any more than he already was -- ready to fend off an attack. He had the feeling Cage was the sort of man who, if he did decide to attack, would just lunge without warning.

Eventually it became clear he'd decided not to; he shook his head again, took a slow step backward, and said, "No." He stared at Liam for another moment, searching his face, then walked past him, past the quivering body of Csokas curled on the floor, and continued on out the door.

Some men didn't know how to handle violence, no matter how much they thought they wanted it, said they wanted it, claimed to be looking forward to it. Cage had talked a good talk about wanting to find Csokas and punish him for what he'd done. Liam had believed him, thinking his abolitionist sentiments -- wrong-headed as they might be -- would carry him through the reality of eliminating the man who'd perverted all their ideas for breaking slaves out of the system.

No guts, he thought with some scorn. No backbone when it comes down to reality.

Liam didn't have that problem, and he picked up where he'd left off without a second thought.


	37. Chapter 37

By the time Orlando was shoved into a cell on the display corridor -- a small, bare room about six feet square with a glass wall at the front and a concrete bench along one side -- he felt as if he'd been drugged again. He knew he hadn't, or assumed he hadn't, but he could only vaguely perceive what went on around him. He had enough awareness to respond properly to stimulus when necessary, but otherwise it was like he was trapped inside his skull. Or maybe hiding there. It was safer inside, with as much of his conscious self as possible focused inward, ignoring what happened to him, to his surface, to his body.

He sat on one end of the bench and leaned against the walls with is eyes closed. The bench wasn't long enough to stretch out on, so propping himself up in the corner was the next best thing. All he wanted to do was wait, daydream, zone out. If he could only learn to do it right, it'd be like he didn't exist at all. That'd be perfect.

Some length of time went by, probably not too much since no one had come with lunch or even water, but eventually he heard a tap on the glass. He looked up and saw a middle-aged woman standing out in the corridor, looking in at him.

When she saw she had his attention, she raised both hands, palms up. Orlando stood and took a step into the middle of his cell.

She took a pinch of the fabric of her blouse, then lifted her hands up again. Orlando pulled his T-shirt off.

He reached for the waistband of his shorts, but the woman was already frowning. She shook her head and turned to the other side of the corridor, stopping in front of another cell where there was another man, younger than Orlando and obviously bulkier. Apparently she wanted someone with more muscle.

Orlando sat back down and leaned against the wall again, not bothering to put his T-shirt back on. He'd been assigned extra hours in the exercise room, and more weight work than most of the other slaves got, but his body just wasn't made to bulk up much. His master had never minded....

That led him back to memories and fantasy, and he closed his eyes again.

More zone-out practice. More time went by.

There was another tap on the glass. Orlando looked up, saw a young man about his own age grinning in at him, then froze.

It was his master on the other side of the corridor. It had to be. His back was mostly facing Orlando but hardly anyone was as tall as his master. The build was the same, or almost the same -- maybe he'd lost some weight? -- and the hair was the same color, the same length. The shoulders, the hips, it _had_ to be him and part of Orlando was delirious with joy and another part of him was terrified because if his master pointed him out, said "That's my slave who was stolen," the Commerce people would take him away to the mines--

But the man turned around and it wasn't his master.

Orlando slumped back against the wall.

The young man who'd tapped on the glass signalled for him to get up, but while Orlando got to his feet, the other man who wasn't his master said something to the younger man. They talked, argued, then the young man scowled and stalked away. The tall, older man who didn't really look much like his master at all from the front, looked Orlando up and down, then gave him a small smile and a nod. He went away up the corridor.

Orlando sat down again. He wondered sort of vaguely what the two men had said to each other, but didn't care enough to try to imagine what it might've been.

More staring. A few other people strolled up the corridor, but no one else tapped on the glass of Orlando's cell.

He ignored another length of time passing, then heard the door at the back of his cell open. One of the staffers, not a handler but a woman in a suit, stepped inside saying, "--sure? You're entitled to a more thorough inspection."

The tall man from before stepped in after her, looked Orlando over one more time, then nodded and said, "Yes. I'm sure he's what my employer is looking for. No sense taking him for a test drive; I'm not the one who's going to be fucking him."

The staff woman gave him a bright smile and said, "Your employer is lucky to have you. Most people would do it anyway as a perk of the job. You're clearly very conscientious about your duties."

The man gave her a smile and a shrug. "He pays well and I'd rather keep my job. I can get sex on my own."

She nodded and said, "That's fine, then. We'll go to the sales office and take care of the paperwork; I'll have a handler take David to Escrow. Is your employer planning to come pick him up himself? There's a bit of a ceremony about it...?"

The man shook his head. "No, he's on a business trip and won't be back in the country for a couple of weeks. I'll pick David up myself when everything clears."

"That's fine." The staff lady ushered the tall man back out the door, and Orlando heard it close and lock. Neither one had addressed him, or given him more than a quick glance.

Well, that's it, I guess. That was... painless. And fast.

Two weeks' reprieve before he had to call someone else "Master." But two more weeks before he'd know, once and for all, what kind of situation he was in.

The door opened again and a handler poked a head in, gestured for him to get up and come out. Orlando pulled inward again, leaving as little of himself as possible on the surface.

That lasted for four days.

Life in Escrow was peaceful but boring. There was nothing much to do, no duties or tasks. Everyone there was just waiting for their sale to be finalized, the paperwork to complete, their new owner to arrive and take them away. Most body-slaves were carefully groomed and ceremonially fucked by their new owner before being led out. Orlando had no idea where that custom had come from, but it was how things were done and considering what they'd just been through, if they were new, one more uncomplicated fuck was nothing to get tense over.

Irrelevant anyway, in Orlando's case. A handler stepped into the common room and called, "David Grant!" Orlando stood up and followed him out, down corridors and through heavy doors and around corners to a small office where the tall man was sitting. Orlando stepped up to him and knelt at his feet.

"He's yours now," said the handler. "Enjoy him, and don't hesitate to bring him back if he gives you any trouble."

Orlando thought, Asshole, while the tall man said, "Not mine, my employer's. Any trouble is his problem."

"Close enough," said the handler. "Have a good day."

He left, and Orlando just knelt on the floor, eyes on his... well, on the shoes of the man currently responsible for him.

The man said, "You can relax a bit, you're going to be in limbo for a while, until your new master gets back. And we have a few errands to see to before then." He stood up and said, "Come on, let's get to it." Orlando followed him out of the office.

The man was silent all the way to the car, and for the entire drive down winding, crowded freeways. They headed north without speaking for a couple of hours until the traffic thinned out past the grapevine. The tall man stopped at a Jack in the Box at a tiny town that was basically a wide spot on either side of the freeway, ordered a sack of cheeseburgers and a couple of drinks, and got back on the road.

When they were done eating, well in to the flat, boring agricultural country up Highway Five, he said, "I should tell you a few things about your new master."

Orlando straightened up a bit and tried to look attentive.

"He lost his body-slave a little while ago," the man said, his voice low and casual.

Wait, he what? Orlando froze.

"Actually, his boy was kidnapped." He paused a moment while Orlando tried to wrap his mind around that, and fought off hope.

"Do you know what that means," the tall man continued, "when a slave is stolen?"

"Run away," Orlando said out of reflex. Then he flinched, and looked over at the man out of the corner of his eye. He was nodding, though.

"Exactly. Run away. There's no such thing as a stolen slave. Your new master searched hard for his body-slave, pretty much tore into three counties while looking. He hired me to find him. But then Commerce declared his boy a runaway, and he found out that even if he found his old body-slave again, he wouldn't be able to keep him. Commerce would just confiscate him and treat him as a runaway, and that would be that. So he stopped looking."

Another pause. The man eyed Orlando, as though waiting for some response. Orlando swallowed, trying to think what to say. "I... uh, that makes sense."

The man nodded. "He was very upset. Actually, that's an understatement." Another pause. "Your new owner is a proud man, and you probably shouldn't repeat this, but you need to know what kind of man he is if you're going to get along with him." Another glance, and Orlando nodded again.

The tall man went on, "I think he was a little crazy for a while. I think he cared for his old body-slave more than he'd ever admit, even to himself. Not that anyone with any pretense to class or breeding _would_ admit it, right?"

Orlando murmured agreement. No, no one who wanted to be respected by his rich peers would ever admit such a thing.

"But once he accepted that the boy was gone forever," the man continued, "and that searching for him wouldn't help anyone, he assigned me to find a replacement. I've been hunting through Commerce centers up and down the state for a young man who looks like his lost boy. You bear a striking resemblance to him, the closest I've found by quite a lot, and you're going to be spending the next month or so in a cosmetic makeover clinic making up the difference, until you're as perfect a match as you can be."

"Wait, what?" Orlando turned and stared outright at the man, all his reborn hopes rotting away. A body shop? That meant surgery. His stomach turned over and he suddenly regretted the cheeseburgers.

The man nodded. "It won't be all that much, really." He glanced over, as though reminding himself what Orlando's face looked like. "Take a little off the chin, straighten the nose, lower the cheekbones just a touch. Although maybe a bit less than I originally thought -- you're really quite striking and the cheekbones are a big part of it. Have to think about that.

"You'll be getting your hair adjusted too -- his old boy was a medium blond -- and I'm afraid you'll need blue-grey eyes. That part'll be a bit uncomfortable, and you won't be able to see for a couple of weeks, as I understand it. But your new owner has authorized top quality treatment, with full pain management, so it won't be too bad."

Orlando slumped back into his seat, shocked and confused and horribly disappointed.

Of course, that's what happens when you let yourself hope, he scolded himself. You knew it was impossible, but you let yourself hope anyway. Stupid.

"You probably didn't expect this," the man was saying, "but really, more and more people are sending their body-slaves for adjustment. The technology's really improved, and if you can afford it, it lets you have exactly what you want. So you might well have had to have work done, even if you'd been bought by someone else."

It sounded like he was trying to be... what? Reassuring? Comforting? Orlando nodded and said, "Yes, sir," just in case.

"It won't be that long, and then it'll be over and past and you'll finally get to meet your new owner," he went on. "He can be a bit harsh, fair warning, but he's not usually cruel. Obey him, do your best to please him, and I'm sure you'll be fine."

"Of course, sir," Orlando murmured.

Fine. I'll be just fine. Once the face in the mirror is just "David," I can forget all about Orlando and everything will be just fine.


	38. Chapter 38

Liam sat on a rock next to a picturesque (and rather loud) cascading waterfall, reading mail on his phone and deliberately _not_ looking at his watch every forty seconds. He wasn't up pacing, either, or looking over his shoulder at the driveway leading up to the Monterey Clipper Inn where he'd booked a room, although he didn't expect to stay the night. The small hotel was near to where Thewlis would be picking up his new body-slave, though -- Thewlis, who'd finally surfaced, battered but alive, a few days after Liam had returned from India with ghostly blood on his hands and grim satisfaction in his gut -- and they were all meeting at the hotel, outside on the grounds where it was cold but peaceful and private, him and the young man he'd purchased.

Remember that, he reminded himself. It's a new boy. Orlando will never be back, he's gone and he's better off wherever he is.

He felt a wave of depression soak into him, his shoulders sagging just a degree or two, his face tightening into a slight wince.

Waiting. Mail. Check industry news. Stare out past the view for a while. Check mail.

Life at home was going to be... delicate for a while. He'd thought it'd be better if he met the new boy elsewhere first, let them at least begin to settle in before tossing the young man into a house full of strangers, all of whom would be staring and watching, and several of whom were still mourning his predecessor. This first meeting was likely to be emotional, on both sides. Best get it done in private.

Stare out at the bay, through the trees. Check mail. Play solitaire, losing over and over.

When a car finally pulled up the drive and stopped a ways away, Liam knew it was Thewlis. It was probably a subconscious recognition of his engine sounds or some such thing, but it felt like a fist to the gut. He didn't turn around, just put his phone away and sat, looking at the white curtain of water plunging down an ornamental arrangement of rocks into an icy-looking pool.

Footsteps. Thewlis's tall, lanky form came into view first, then the young man he had firmly by the arm. A blue-eyed young man with short, dirty-blond hair and a look of blank shock on his not-quite-familiar face.

"Lord Neeson, this is David," said Thewlis, his voice formal and respectful but perfectly calm. "David, this is your new master, Lord Neeson."

Liam said, "David," and looked him over.

Whatever initial scarring there might've been from the facial surgery had healed beautifully. As it should; actors and other celebrities frequented the same body shop, which was reputed to be the best in the world. For what they charged, Liam frankly expected perfection.

The face was a bit blunter in shape. The nose was straighter and a little narrower, giving it a sharp look. The old hair would've been removed so it could grow in its new color; it was shorter than Liam liked, but time would fix that.

They'd adjusted David's metabolism as well, and stimulated his muscle growth -- another treatment popular with male celebrities. He wasn't brutish, but he was subtley muscular in a way he never had been before, no matter how hard he tried, and for a year or so in his early-twenties, he'd tried rather hard.

His olive skin had been lightened a couple of shades, to go with the lighter eyes and hair. All in all, the effect was subtle.

Perfect. Just the thing to have attracted a pining fool of a master who was stuck in the past and hunting ghosts, but not so much of a resemblance as to arouse suspicion.

David opened his mouth once, twice, then said, "Master?" That one word was near to bursting with an agony of emotion, and the boy jerked in Thewlis's strong grip, as though he'd tried to lunge forward..

Before David could say anything else, Liam interrupted him. "Yes, I'm your new master. I'm sure you'll work hard and serve me well, and we'll get along just fine."

Liam glanced back at the waterfall, and Thewlis said, "My Lord, perhaps if you and David took a walk...?"

He was right; moving was better.

"Good idea. There's a path down to the beach." It was also windy, and the surf was making enough noise to be heard up a fifty-foot cliff. It would probably do. Liam took David's other arm in a grip just as solid as Thewlis's, to prevent David from doing what Liam wanted just as much -- to crush them together in a hug that'd probably crack bones. That wouldn't do, however. Not yet.

He hauled David toward the steps leading down to the sand, and heard Thewlis say something about waiting inside, at the bar. Fine.

When they got down near the water, enough to feel the stinging-cold spray, Liam said, "I assume Thewlis told you about my previous body-slave."

"Yes, Master." David sucked in a breath, hard; Liam could feel the tension in his body, from heart to arm to hand to heart. If the boy didn't relax soon, at least a little, something was going to break.

"You understand, then, that there can never be any confusion between the two of you. I realize you resemble him somewhat -- that's one of the reasons you were chosen -- but if there's ever any question of who you are, Commerce is likely to confiscate you first and investigate afterward. That would be... inconvenient for me. I've already been without a body-slave for considerably longer than I like."

Liam looked over and saw David swallow hard, then nod. "Yes, Master. I do understand." He paused, then added softly, "There was... an incident during my training. One of the handlers made Commerce's policy on that subject very clear."

It took a strong act of will not to grab David and demand an explanation. Liam could only imagine what David might have done to prompt such a lesson, or how it might have been taught. Instead he pushed the thought away, searched frantically for some other topic, and said, "I've never been a body-slave's first master before -- a body-slave fresh out of Commerce's training. I hope you found it useful. Interesting." He knew he sounded like an idiot but he couldn't help it; he had to ask.

David's step faltered for a moment, and Liam was alarmed until he realized the boy was laughing. It was a quick, harsh laugh, just as quickly stifled.

"I apologize, Master. The training was very thorough. Efficient. I'm sure... I _hope_ my skills will please you. If you require anything I've not been taught, I'll do my best to learn quickly."

Liam swallowed and turned his head to stare at the surging water. "I'm sure you'll please me very well. And... I'm sure it will take you some time to become accustomed to me. Although I'll tolerate no disrespect, I won't expect you to show... to display particular affection right away, until you've settled in, and we've been together for a while."

David looked like he was about to protest, then nodded and said, "Yes, Master. Thank you, Master." They walked on for another minute, then David said, "Master? May I ask a question?"

"You may."

"Mr. Thewlis said that... that your old body-slave had family in your household. Are they, that is, will they likely be still mourning? Missing him? I-- I wouldn't want to cause them any pain."

And that, of course, was part of the reason they were there, meeting away from home. How to explain it?

Liam had been trying to figure out how to say what he needed to say for hours. Days, weeks even, if he were honest. And if he was smart as well as honest, he knew that talking around a subject was pointless. Anyone who might be listening to a purpose would be able to decode the vague phrases just as easily as the people speaking; Liam's companies held enough classified contracts for him to know that basic tenet of security. If it was safe to talk around a subject, then it was safe to talk out in the open. If it wasn't, well, they were already fucked.

He stopped and turned, taking the young man by the shoulders, lowering his voice out of irrational and unconquerable reflex. "David. You know what happened. This is the only way I could have you; if you're discovered, you'll be taken away from me and killed. You know, I know, Thewlis knows. Kevin will figure it out but he'll keep his mouth shut or I'll sell him to a toxic clean-up crew, promise be damned. Don't let on you know him, by the way -- he helped me find you, but he's a conniving little bastard so don't trust him. But that's all -- no one else can know."

David looked confused for a moment while Liam warned him about Kevin, then visibly dismissed the question and said, "But my mother? Samantha? They'll recognize me, I know they will. So will Johnny."

"They might. They might _think_ they recognize you, but if they do, it can't ever be acknowledged. You know what surveillance is like -- there might well be bugs at home and we'd never know. You're David, you have to be David forever, and that's the end of it.

"This will help," he added, running one hand through David's short hair, then brushing a finger along one eyebrow, down his cheek and neck and out across one slightly-broader shoulder. "If they come to doubt their memories, to truly accept you as David, then that's all to the good. If not, they have to be made to keep any suspicions to themselves. Even in private. It's important, David. I won't lose you again and anyone who even hints that you might not be my David will be punished harshly. I will _not_ lose you."

David coughed on whatever he'd almost said in response, then instead said, "Yes, Master."

That should've been the end of it, but what the hell. If they were under surveillance, then someone would be listening as well as watching, so it didn't matter. He pulled Orlando-- David! David-David-David! --to him, arms tight around his back and waist, and wrapped him in an enveloping hug. David latched on, hugging back, and Liam heard a faint, hiccuping sob. He rocked back and forth, pressing a kiss into David's bristly hair.

"You're mine," he whispered. "I'm keeping you, if we have to go to fucking India and defect."

Another hiccup, this time around a laugh. David murmured, "Yes, Master." And that was that. They turned and walked back up the beach.

 

It was nearly noon by the time Thewlis saw Lord Neeson and David coming across the lobby. Thewlis finished the last swallow of beer in his glass and headed over to meet them.

"You two hit it off?" he asked when they met and paused in the middle of the marble floor. It was a bit more informal than he usually was with Lord Neeson, but if there was anything wrong, he hoped his Lordship could figure out a way of getting that across to him. Anything that needed fixing, needed fixing immediately.

"Well enough," Lord Neeson replied. "It'll take some time to adjust, but that's normal. I'm sure David will learn how to please me quickly enough."

"I'm sure he will," Thewlis agreed, hoping that meant everything was all right. "Did you want to head right home, then, or...?"

"Let's get some lunch first. I don't have any appointments this afternoon, and if anything burns down, people know how to contact me."

Thewlis grinned and tossed Lord Neeson a teasing salute. "That they do. Food sounds good."

David had been standing silently by his master's side while the free men talked. His posture was graceful, his position pleasing, and his expression suitably neutral, but he looked... off. Thewlis had never known David before, but he'd seen photos and a couple of vids, and the smiling, flirtatious young man was just a vague memory when compared with the still, tense slave standing before him. Probably just as well, all things considered -- the more points of difference the better, especially in the crucial first year or so -- but still, it was sad. Thewlis could only imagine how it felt for Lord Neeson, if even a stranger was noticing.

They started across the lobby toward a small but chic restaurant when what looked like six months' worth of baggage piled on top of a luggage cart teetered and fell to the floor with a crash.

In the middle of a bellhop diving after the cases, the guest who (presumably) owned the cases babbling in an angry voice about damage, and a manager-type rushing over to expedite the clearing up of the mess and the smoothing of feathers, David had slammed to the floor on his knees, with his forehead on the marble.

Lord Neeson stared down at him with a puzzled scowl. Thewlis went down on one knee and coaxed David back up to his feet. "New slave," he said over his shoulder to Lord Neeson. "They're fairly rigid in their discipline, and they drill until the reflexes are embedded down to the bone. If you don't plan to require the same standards, you'll need to work with him, and it'll probably take some time to re-train him. He really can't help it right now." There was also a generous helping of fear in the boy, but Thewlis could only hope time and being back home -- however strange the situation -- would ease that. After what he'd likely been through, though, healing from it wouldn't be quick.

David looked like he was about to kneel again, this time to his owner. "I apologize, Master," he murmured to Neeson's shoes. "I didn't mean to make a spectacle of myself."

And sure enough, when Thewlis looked around, he saw that there were just as many people staring at them as at the fiasco with the scattered luggage.

Lord Neeson stared at the boy for a few seconds, his jaw clenched. He finally nodded and said, "Forgiven. We'll work on it." Then he turned on his heel and continued on to the restaurant.

David automatically knelt next to Lord Neeson's seat, getting up only to serve his master when new courses came, or to refresh his drink. Lord Neeson fed David off his own plate; it wasn't something Thewlis was used to seeing, but his Lordship seemed to be doing it automatically, without any particular thought, and Thewlis noticed that David was... well, maybe not quite so tightly strung by the time the server came around to offer dessert.

"Will you need me for anything else, my Lord?" Thewlis asked, after ordering an espresso. Lord Neeson had ordered the creme brulee to go with his own coffee.

"No, I think we're finished," he said. "You might not've been able to find my boy for me, but you gave it a solid effort. And you did find me a replacement, so I'll count that as a good job. You can keep whatever's left on the retainer, and feel free to use me as a reference."

"Thank you, my Lord. That's very generous."

"You earned it." Lord Neeson sat back in his chair and cocked his head at Thewlis. "Do you have anything else lined up?"

Dave gave him a wry smile. "Well, I've actually been in contact with Mr. Vincent over the last month or so. He's insisting he wants to hire me as soon as you no longer needed me. I tried to explain that I have very few contacts on the eastern seaboard, but he doesn't seem the sort of man who takes no for an answer with any equanimity."

Lord Neeson smirked and said, "No, he's not and never has been. I suggest you give in gracefully." He paused for a moment and frowned, staring into Thewlis's eyes like he was trying to see the back of his head. He hesitated for long ticks of the clock, then he said, "You may tell him," and that was the end of that conversation.


	39. Chapter 39

Margaret knelt on the kitchen floor next to Samantha, waiting. Their master had come in through the kitchen door and commanded the two of them and Johnny to kneel there and wait while he brought in his new body-slave.

Gloria was sitting at her table to wait, and Margaret couldn't help resenting it. She knew that if Gloria knelt on the floor for any length of time -- certainly for the several minutes it had already been -- she'd need help getting up and probably wouldn't be able to walk at all for days, but it didn't help much. Margaret knew it was an uncharitable resentment but couldn't banish it, and all things considered she wasn't about to worry too much about it.

She had no idea why Master Liam had decided to introduce the new boy to the kitchen staff first. The kitchen staff plus Johnny, and that other new boy, Kevin, whose purchase Margaret hadn't been able to figure out yet. Why did it matter if they met him first, that particular group? Why not all the slaves in the household, if there was to be a big introduction in the first place?

Margaret would just as soon not meet him at all, this boy who was going to be taking Orlando's place in the household.

Commerce-trained, this new one, and probably all full of himself, pampered and demanding. Or maybe broken and needing coddling and tip-toeing around him -- who knew? She didn't _think_ Master Liam would choose someone like that, but over the last months she'd given up any notion of being able to predict his behavior.

But her knees were sending shooting pains up her thighs and down to her ankles, and her back ached, and she had a cheese sauce on the stove that she was _sure_ was going to curdle despite the flame being turned down as low as it would go and this was all just so _stupid_ because who _cared_ about the new boy besides Master? All Margaret knew was that he'd given up searching for Orlando, just abandoned him to whatever--

Master Liam stepped back in through the kitchen door and stopped. He glared at everyone in the room, meeting Margaret's eyes before moving on, and then commanded, "Silence!" His voice cracked out, as harsh and angry sounding as she'd ever heard it, and Margaret found herself with her head halfway down to the floor before she stopped herself and knelt back up on her heels. Before she could wonder what had him in such a harsh mood, he stepped farther into the room and ushered in a stranger, obviously his new body-slave.

She stared, and opened her mouth to say... something, but before she could get out a word, Master Liam said, "Don't make me repeat myself, Maggie," and she shut her mouth again.

And Master said, "This is David, my new body-slave. I expect everyone here to treat him with proper respect."

But it was Orlando. It had to be. The pretty young man had medium-blond hair, short and spiky, and when he glanced up at her -- only for half a second -- his eyes looked blue or maybe blue-grey, but it _had_ to be Orlando. The nose was straighter and sharper, the chin a bit blunter, but.... She stared at him, trying to see, to make the minor differences fade away like an optical illusion suddenly snapping into focus and becoming something recognizable.

Master Liam was saying, "--know everyone here knew and cared for Orlando. He pleased me very well, and when I went searching for a new body-slave I deliberately chose one who resembles Orlando somewhat." He glared around at everyone once more, as though daring them to comment on that. Of course, no one did.

The boy -- David -- was standing there, still and silent, with Master Liam's hands on his upper arms. Orlando would've been leaning back against the master's chest, cuddling as much as he could. And the master would've been pressing Orlando toward him, his hands clasping more of Orlando's skin, straying down his arms, covering as much of him as he could, here in the privacy of home. Margaret hadn't been happy to see the attachment between them when Orlando was younger, but given that her son _was_ a body-slave -- and as beautiful as he was, it had been inevitable that he _would_ be -- she'd eventually reconciled herself to it, and become pleased to see that he cared for Master Liam, and that their master seemed to care for him too, on some level. It could have been much worse and well she knew it.

But this, this was different. And the distance between them -- not just the slight physical distance but the emotional distance -- made her wonder whether the boy's resemblance to her son and her own desperate wish to see him again were playing tricks on her. Because watching the two standing there, it didn't look anything like Orlando-and-Master. It looked like a man and his new slave, still not sure how they fit together, still learning one another.

"I realize this might cause some difficulties for some of you," Master Liam continued, "but I want to make it clear that I won't tolerate any nonsense from any of you. I expect that David won't be harassed or hazed or otherwise bothered. Nor do I expect that anyone who might miss Orlando particularly badly would try to make David into some kind of substitute, resemblance notwithstanding. Anyone 'mistakenly' calling him by the wrong name will be thrashed."

Margaret's eyes widened at that. Master Liam had never been a particularly tolerant man, but neither had he ever punished beyond what was reasonable for the crime, and a thrashing just for mistaking the boy's name was... was--

"I'll make this clear one time," he said, his voice still low and harsh. "Commerce does not recognize stolen slaves. So far as they're concerned, any slave who isn't where his master thinks he should be is a runaway, period. No questions, no exceptions. David's provenance is clear, but if anyone who heard someone slip in addressing David ever got the idea that he might be Orlando and decided to cause trouble, David could be taken away from me just on suspicion and I would be _extremely_ displeased. Likewise, if Commerce has stopped searching for Orlando, that's just as well, and I would rather no one stir up their interest again. Is that understood?"

Margaret said, "Yes, Master," in chorus with the others, but her mind was spinning with new information. Was Master Liam actually hinting or was it her motherly wishful thinking?

The master walked through the kitchen and out into the main part of the house, one hand still firmly on... David? the small of David's back. David kept his eyes down and let Master Liam steer him without looking at anyone. And then he was gone and Margaret still didn't know whether or not her son had been found.

 

David ate with his master in the study, the food served off of a tray Samantha brought from the kitchen. It was more private than the dining room, and Master Liam had said something about wanting to be alone and get to know one another.

Samantha fetched the TV trays and transferred plates of food and cutlery and glasses and napkins and such to them, arranging everything just so while trying to stare at David out of the corner of her eye without looking like she was doing it. That didn't work very well, and Master Liam finally sent her scurrying out the door with a snapped rebuke. And then they were alone.

Except they weren't really alone. Or they couldn't assume they were. Someone might be listening, whether one of the other slaves or a free employee skulking or eavesdropping or just walking in at the wrong time, or someone with the government listening even more covertly through a microbug. You never knew, and most people just forgot about it as well as they could. David had never thought about it much before, but then he'd never had a huge secret that could cost him a horrible death before.

The thought churned his stomach as it always did and he imagined it would for a long time. He ate anyway, though, because if he'd refused to eat while at the training center, a handler wound beat him with a shock wand until he ate or passed out, one of the two. It had taught him to ignore a queasy stomach whenever physically possible.

His mother -- no, Margaret, he had to remember that -- had made a ham with fried potatoes and gravy, and glazed carrots, with a blackberry cobbler for dessert. It was all wonderful, and it all reminded him forcefully, from his nose and his tastebuds straight to his brain -- that he'd grown up on this food and loved it.

He and his master ate, appreciating the food but not talking much. Not that they'd ever rambled on for hours, but they'd always been comfortable before in their silences, and that comfort was gone. David was still tense, and he could tell his master was as well.

Master Liam finally started talking about the household and the property and the people on it, giving David a summary just as though he hadn't grown up there. The whole thing -- the whole day, for that matter, from the time Mr. Thewlis had steered him into his new master's presence and there he'd been -- felt unreal, like he was unconscious and trapped in some crazy dream.

When his master asked him if he'd ever ridden a horse, and gave him a hard stare to go with the question, it took David a moment to pick up the cue and admit that no, he never had.

"We'll take care of that, then," Master Liam said. "It can feel a bit awkward, learning as an adult, but I'm sure you'll catch on eventually. Might even come to enjoy it."

"I'll try my best, Master," David said, feeling even more detached from the real world.

They finished their dinner, then Master Liam said there was work to do. He set David to reading through the last month's worth of his business mail, explaining that he needed a body-slave who could function as an assistant and that David would need to learn the ropes as quickly as possible.

Master Liam sat down to go over a quarterly review agenda for one of his electronics companies; that was the rest of the evening for both of them.

Getting undressed later on felt surprisingly un-awkward. David still had a feeling of watching himself move through a dreamworld, and his body had plenty of muscle-memory for getting undressed quickly and gracefully. When his master came up behind him and grasped the tops of his shoulders, on either side of his throat, David flinched away before he could stop himself.

The horror of that insulting, unforgiveable mistake sent him slamming down to his knees quicker than a thought, twisted around in mid-fall so his forehead pressed to the top of his master's naked instep. "I apologize, Master."

"David? Get up. I don't want you making full obeisance unless you've done something serious." His master sounded impatient, and that sent David scrambling to his feet as fast as he could, even moreso than the mere command.

"I'm sorry, Master."

Master Liam eyed him for a few seconds, then asked, "Did that hurt?"

"Y-yes, Master. I'm sorry, Master."

His master stepped closer and ran a light fingertip along his collarbone. There were no scars there, David knew, and that light a touch didn't hurt, but he tensed anyway out of reflex.

"Surgery?" Master Liam asked.

"Yes, Master." His master gave him an expectant look, so he added, "They did something to make the bones longer, cut through and extended them, then grew new bone to fill the gap. Just a little."

Big hands drifted across his shoulders from neck to deltoid. "So it's not just muscle, then?"

"No, Master."

"Will sex hurt?"

The automatic response was, "I'm happy to serve you in any way you might wish."

"I didn't ask that," Master Liam pointed out. "Will it hurt?"

David thought quickly. No one had fucked him since he'd left the center -- the body shop really had been a first class place -- so he had to make some guesses. "I don't think so, Master. Or not much? If... it would probably be painful if you used my shoulders to pull...? And, um, my face is still tender." Master Liam's kisses could get violent. David loved them, but he was still healing and didn't want to chance another flinch away from his master.

"Easy enough to work around," Master Liam said with a short nod.

He ran a much gentler hand across one of David's shoulders, then slid it up into his short hair and tilted his head back for a kiss. This one was light, gentle, getting firmer over the course of a minute or two, but not too much.

David couldn't help letting out a whimper and relaxing completely into his master's body. If this was a dream then he never wanted to wake up. The feel of his master's broad chest, his strong hands, his warmth, the scent of him -- David had missed all of it, and been so sure he'd never have any of it again.

Master Liam steered them toward the bed and laid David down on it, gentle and easy, careful not to squeeze too hard or push too hard or let too much weight rest on him. David had missed that big body pressing him into the mattress, though, and he wrapped his hands around his master and pulled, coaxing, begging for more, just a little more, until the pressure was perfect. Completely covered and held down like that, he felt safe -- safer than he'd ever felt anywhere else. He could stay there forever and be blissfully happy, whether it was real or not.

"David," his master murmured. "David, David, David...." It sounded like he was practicing, and he probably was.

"Master," David moaned. "Let me please you, tell me what you want, fuck me, take me, keep me, _keep me...._

He squirmed under his master, wanting to feel that body rubbing against every part of his. Master Liam growled deep in his throat and practically attacked him with a kiss. It hurt, David's chin and cheeks and nose aching, his teeth twinging in sympathy for just a moment, before his master remembered and eased the pressure. David pushed his hands into his master's hair and held him, refusing to let him go too far away.

"David, fuck, David, David...."

David could feel his master's hard cock pressing into him, rubbing and grinding. David's own cock was just as hard, his balls high and tight and aching for release. It felt like he hadn't really had sex in months -- all the training, the practice, being raped in everything but name over and over and over, none of that counted. That was just something done to his body; this was real sex, like their nerves were entwined and zinging with pleasure. They weren't even really fucking yet, but it felt to David like he was about to explode so hard it would turn him inside out.

"David, David, fuck, ahhhh!"

His master arched and spasmed and came, then stroked David to orgasm before collapsing onto the mattress next to him.

As soon as David had caught his breath, still sizzling with afterglow, smelling his master all over him and feeling like he was floating six inches off the mattress, he sat up and tried to roll out of bed. He needed to get a warm washcloth from the bathroom, but his master pulled him back down.

"Later," he said with a long sigh. "Stay."

"Yes, Master." David willingly lay down once more and snuggled close. It was almost the same, almost perfect, and more than he'd ever thought he'd have again.

Master Liam threw an arm across David's back and pulled him closer, shifting until they were pressed as close as they could get without crawling into one another's skins. His grip was tight, tighter than it'd ever been after sex. Usually he went boneless and drifted off to sleep, but that night he was clutching David closer with both arms. He wrapped a leg around David's legs and surrounded him completely.

He took a deep breath, then another, huffing each one out against the crook of David's neck. David realized just then that he was trembling, tense and shaking and struggling with it, but his iron willed master wasn't able to stop.

His shoulders gave a quick hitch, then another. He sucked in another long breath and gulped hard.

"Fuck...."

"Master?" David rubbed lightly up and down his master's back, unsure what to do.

"I-- won't lose you." He sucked in another breath. "I won't."

"I'm here, Master," David said, because he couldn't think of anything else to say.

"Whatever they did to you, we'll fix it. Whatever it takes, I'll take care of you."

David stopped breathing for a moment, as if his lungs had forgotten how to suck in air. They finally remembered, on the edge of a lightly hysterical panic, and he whispered, "I know you will, Master."

The man in his arms shook again, a fit of trembling the greatest will in the world couldn't stop, and David felt drops of sweat running down his left shoulder. Then a last twitch, and a long, gulping breath, and then the big body cradling his relaxed.

David waited another minute, staring out into the darkened room, then whispered, "I love you too, Master," and sank into sleep.

 

Liam woke up before David and eased out of bed, careful not to wake him. After what the boy had been through in the last months, plenty of sleep somewhere familiar and safe would be good for him. Liam had lain awake for a long time in the dark, though, and had done a lot of thinking. He'd examined some of his oldest beliefs and assumptions, including things like "I'm responsible for taking care of my slaves" and "I am _capable_ of protecting my slaves," and had decided that the first was true but the second wasn't, which threw the whole damn system out of whack.

The whole damn system. That was exactly what it was, wasn't it? I had saved the nation from collapsing into a dirt-grubbing third world country, dead broke, complete with starvation and rioting. It had worked, and it had helped. But then, so had communism, at first, in other nations. When a situation got dire enough, just about anything that prevented utter collapse could be seen as better. But short-term solutions didn't always work in the longer run, and slavery was particularly susceptible to corruption.

Liam wrapped up in a robe, then settled into a chair beside the fireplace with his phone. There was someone he'd heard about, never met but had seen once or twice, one of those people there was gossip about. He'd never been interested in an introduction before, but that was before.

The system was sick. It'd served its purpose, and there might actually be a few people who benefitted under it. Although when he tried to think of specific examples among the slaves he knew personally, he couldn't come up with any. That surprised him, honestly.

He could think of counter-examples, though -- plenty of those. Maggie was skilled at her trade and a hard worker; she'd have no problem making a life for herself as a free woman, given the chance. She'd raised Samantha the same; Liam had no doubt she'd do well on her own. Johnny had a sharp head for business and was a shrewd negotiator, even acting under the handicap of being a slave, and having a limited set of tools available to him when he was on his own. Lord Sinclair's Karl, Mark Vincent's Paul. Tasha had kept competent slaves around the house, even if her taste in body-slaves was questionable. Liam would've been happy to employ any of them for a good wage, if they'd been free.

But they weren't, and there was no legal way to free them. They were a constant drain on the state, if only in the need to keep records on them and maintain some oversight to prevent abuse -- for however well that worked -- and it was completely unnecessary. A waste of tax money.

Surely anyone fit to be responsible to own another person should be competent to judge when that person was fit to own him- or herself? To suggest it, at least? Nominate competent slaves for some sort of review board? There should be _some_ path to manumission. At least for slaves born to it, or those enslaved as children, where the fault, the irresponsibility, wasn't their own.

Something. There should be something, because what they had was broken in too many places.

Aha, that was the name. He'd been spelling it wrong.

He spent some time carefully wording an e-mail, then sent it. He didn't expect a response immediately -- it was still ridiculously early, after all -- so he spent the next few hours alternately reading a book and watching David sleep, his thoughts drifting to all the things wrong with the world and how they could possibly be fixed, short of mass murder or armed revolution.

He got a Bing! of response just as David had begun to stir.

Liam was composing another message when David slipped out of bed, pulled on a pair of pajama bottoms and slipped out of the room. He returned with coffee within a few minutes; Liam looked up at him with a small smile and said, "Get a shower and get dressed; we have to be on the road within the hour."

"Master?" David set a mug of coffee down on the small table next to Liam's chair, then knelt next to him, looking up with a question on his face.

Liam reached out and brushed a hand across David's short, light hair. "You have an appointment with a Dr. Blanchett," he said.

David said, "Yes, Master," and hurried off to get ready.


End file.
